


Worlds Apart

by ChibiAuthorJessie (manatapped)



Series: Chronicles of War [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Anduin is a Questionable Influence on Violet, Breakups, F/M, I'm Not Any Nicer to Them In This One, Prelude to Wrath of the Lich King, Really I'm not, Relationship Problems, Separation, Shenanigans, Substance Abuse, They Have A Bad Time But Pretend They're Fine, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violet is a Bad Influence on Anduin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-06-16 10:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatapped/pseuds/ChibiAuthorJessie
Summary: The Legion's Burning Crusade is at an end, but peace on Azeroth is always short-lived. For Violet and Tyri'el, that reality is all too clear. Their lives have changed, and they must face the consequences of their actions.Some lessons can only be learned the hard way.---Takes place between Burning Crusade and Wrath of the Lich King.





	1. Obligatory Boring Information and Disclaimers

_Legal Stuff: Canon characters, names, places, etc, are property of Blizzard Entertainment. I only own my OCs and the bullshit I put them through, no matter how much I wish I could write them into canon **(seriously, Blizz, hmu)**._

\- - - - -

**Chronicles of War**

**Book 1.5: Separate Ways**

————

 

**A Few Things To Know About My Universe:**

  
1\. I try very hard to keep everything as accurate as possible lore-wise, but there are times when I take creative liberties for the sake of the story. So, I wouldn’t take all the lore presented as 100% fact. I also have a lot of little headcanons put in, but most of those don’t change canon - really, they just add flavor.

2\. The timeline is…wibbly-wobbly. In the real world, about two years passes between the launch of expansions, but in-game/lore-wise, only a year passes between each release. That felt a little too rushed for my tastes, so I’m decreeing that in my universe, each expansion lasts about two years. Using official Blizz sources (The ‘Chronicle’ books and other canon literature), as well as the WoW Gamepedia (wow.gamepedia.com), I’ve mathed my way to the conclusion that at the start of the series, during Burning Crusade, about 7 years have passed since the events of WC III/Frozen Throne. There’s also a bit of a gray area spanning a few years prior to that to accommodate some plot points, but everything happens in nearly the same order as it does in canon (exceptions being if I can’t find references to the order of specific events, in which case I organize them how it makes the most sense to me). As such, some characters will be older than they are in-game, following the expanded timeline.

3\. Azeroth is a whole lot bigger than it is in-game. Sorry, it doesn’t take ten minutes to run from Silvermoon City to Booty Bay.

4\. This is World of Warcraft. Bad things happen and people get hurt. I will do my best to put trigger warnings at the start of each chapter as they come up, but be aware that this series is drama-based and characters will often have a bad time. It’s not always doom and gloom, but like the tag says, it’s not called ‘World of Sunshine and Rainbows’, and for good reason. If you need your fics to always be happy and fluffy…well, you’ve been warned.

——

**Specific Notes for This Particular Book:**

Following the expanded timeline mentioned above, Anduin is thirteen when this starts. It's been about six months since Onyxia was killed and Varian/Lo'Gosh were smooshed back together. It picks up immediately after the last book ends.

——

**Soundtrack:**

https://open.spotify.com/user/dqymjowdxoqkr1i05wxw3iydu/playlist/345b1txczhSF2xnk1e1IOr

——

**A Few Final Thoughts:**

  
I have given myself the deadline of a minimum of one chapter per week, but sometimes I kick serious word ass and get more than that done (I think my record is four chapters in the span of a week?).

These fics are very loosely beta’d. As in, I re-read them once before posting, and then my brother reads them and tells me about typos. So, there’s bound to be a few mistakes here and there, but I usually catch them within a day or two.

I live for feedback! Please, if you have any thoughts at all - be they good, bad, or emotionally ambiguous - please please please don’t hesitate to drop me a comment! I take constructive criticism to heart, and I am always eager to hear what people think and how I might improve my writing. Of course, if you just want to tell me what an amazing job I’m doing, I’m totally fine with that, too!

——

****You have earned the achievement: [Survive the Boring Info Section!]****

Thanks for bearing with me, and I hope you have as much fun (and feels!) reading this fic as I had writing it!

 

And, as always,

**FOR AZEROTH!**

 

 


	2. Home

Stormwind hasn’t changed. From the crisp scent of the ocean and the cries of gulls to the distant sound of commerce all around, it’s almost painfully the same as Violet remembers it. Even the two mages manning the portal gateway at the very top of the tower in the mage tower are the same, greeting them with a smile as they emerge. The purple roofs of the buildings in the Mage Quarter greet them as they exit at the top of the tower, and the day is clear enough that she can see all the way to the mountains framing the far side of the Keep to the north. It’s a view she’s beheld many times before, but this time, it’s laced with a deep, aching sense of loss that comes from the center of her chest. With the city she’d once called home all around her now, the only thing Violet doesn’t recognize is herself.

She shouldn’t be here, something inside of her says. It’s just a little voice, but it sounds so much like Tyri’el that it nearly takes her breath away. Dacian wraps an arm around her and looks down, his brows drawn together in silent question. Violet shakes her head with the best smile she can manage. With any luck, he’ll take her continued trepidation as merely an aftereffect of their sudden reunion. Nevermind that it feels like she’s been bucked from a horse and landed flat on her back with all the breath knocked from her body.

“The city’s been too empty without you, little moon,” Dacian says, pressing a soft kiss to her temple as she looks out over the ocean. In lieu of words, she takes in a deep lungful of the salty air, a once-comforting scent that does little for her now. That tiny voice comes again and she drags her eyes from the harbor, sweeping her gaze across the city to the eastern edge, over the blue roofs of the Trade District to the little inlet she knows houses the aviary. She could take a gryphon north to Ironforge, then to Menethil Harbor, then across the Thandol Span to—

_And I don’t need you._

The words come back with a clawing in her chest, like her heart wishes to break free from her ribcage and leap off the edge of the tower to its ultimate death. Tyri’el had refused to speak with her, even with the desperately written plea she’d penned and sent up with the gnome. There’s still a part of her that wishes beyond hope that she’ll find a way back to Dalaran, to just make him listen, even if she has to…has to…

The hour is earlier here than it was in Dalaran, and the bell from the clock tower in the center of the city chimes eight o’clock. Dacian’s arm drops from her shoulder to take her hand in his and he lifts it between them, turning their twined fingers in the red and golds of the nearing sunset. The ring on her finger sparkles and catches the light, and he seems momentarily mesmerized by it.

“I keep expecting to wake up,” he says, and her already weeping heart aches a little more at the sadness in his eyes. He lifts their hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles.

“So do I,” Violet admits, though it would be from some kind of half-nightmare rather than a dreamy fantasy. Behind them, Hala shuffles her weight from foot to foot, clearly unnerved by how far from the ground they are. Violet turns and rests her hand on the worg’s muzzle, whispering soothing words in Darnassian.

“To think,” Dacian begins with a soft sigh escaping him as he looks towards the Keep, “I nearly didn’t go to father’s party tonight.”

“Why did you?” Violet thinks back to her conversation with Barrett, to him telling her that his little brother hadn’t been with the rest of his family since before they’d been separated.

“It was more or less Prince Anduin’s doing,” Dacian says, and a genuine sigh, perhaps with a hint of annoyance, pushes past his lips. “If his intentions weren’t so damned earnest, I might be inclined to say he manipulated me into going. He has quite a knack for making people see things his way.”

The irritation gives way to a small smile.

“I think the two of you will get along grandly in that respect.”

Violet can only laugh shortly in apparent agreement, knowing that’s exactly what she’s done to him. It was easy to play on his trust, to make him believe every little lie that had ultimately failed to buy her more time with Tyri’el. In the moment, she’d rationalized it with necessity, telling herself she needed to in order to sort everything out, but now that she’s left reeling from how readily Tyri’el has discarded her…it leaves more than a bitter taste in the back of her throat. She feels the guilt in her gut, writhing like some small beast ill-content to stay locked away for too long. Hala whines, nuzzling against her mistress to bring her from her thoughts.

Dacian begins to descend the spiraling ramp, and Violet follows closely at his side, leading Hala by her reins. The usual studious hush of the Mage Quarter makes it impossible not to hear her own racing thoughts, so she resorts to re-memorizing every twist and turn of the path they take, every sign hanging over the shops, as a way to keep _him_ out of her mind’s eye. It works well enough, but still she searches the faces of passersby on instinct. The rare sighting of the tall ears of a high elf makes her heart leap and her pulse quicken, but her hopes are dashed as soon as they arise, and she takes to keeping her eyes on the ground only a few paces ahead of her for fear of another disappointment. Violet barely notices passing through the lush scenery of the park overlooking the rolling sea, only taking notice of her surroundings again when they cross the bridge over the canals and come into Cathedral Square.

“I want to see Katherine,” Violet blurts, speaking the thought as soon as it enters her mind upon seeing the reaching steeples of the Cathedral of Light. She suddenly feels like a child again, fresh from the loss of her mother, when her mentor was the only thing she had left to cling to. Commanding Hala to stay put at the very bottom of the steps, Violet ties the worg’s reins to a lamppost and pats her a few times reassuringly. Dacian watches her closely as they climb the grand steps of the Cathedral and enter the hallowed halls. A sense of calm washes over Violet as she enters, and all around her, the gentle hum of the Light wraps around her like a comforting shroud. It’s been too long since she’s been in a proper place of worship, and longer still since she’s felt she might belong in one.

A priest welcomes them as they step into the grand worship chamber, and Violet takes a moment to marvel at the height of the ceilings and the intricate stained glass windows letting in the last light of the sunlight. The sight has never failed to amaze her - even the cathedral in Capital City, or the one in Stratholme, weren't nearly as awe-inspiring as this - and again, she feels for a moment like she’s much younger and less world-weary.

Dacian says something to the priest, and then he’s guiding Violet off to one side, towards a room that serves as the training grounds for those learning to wield the Light. A few trainees are still hard at work this late in the day, and Violet shakes off her nostalgia to be met with deep-seated envy at how easily the armor-clad novices call the Light into their hands and hearts. She looks away, swallowing hard. Dacian stops beside another doorway, squeezing her hand before dropping it, and nods to the room beyond.

Inside, a woman, perhaps nearing middle-age, sits behind a desk, stacking gold pieces on top of each other while scribbling in a ledger. She looks tired, but her being glows with subtle Light, giving her an air of solemn calm. Already, Violet’s eyes prick with moisture, and she takes a hesitant step inside. The woman doesn’t seem to notice, and Violet purposely puts more force into each step, going against her rogue instincts to make enough noise to announce her presence without speaking. Finally, when Violet is only a handful of feet away, the woman looks up at her. Dark eyes narrow and then widen, and the coins she’s been counting clatter unceremoniously against the desk. A swirl of Light surrounds Violet, and she feels it studying her for a moment before the paladin decides this is no spell or specter.

“By all that is holy.” Katherine rises from her chair, a few cautious steps turning desperate as she closes the distance and envelops her former charge in a tight, relieved embrace. “Where in Light’s holy name have you been, child?”

“Everywhere,” Violet says, her face buried in the older woman’s neck. “But now I’ve come home.”

Katherine pulls back, looking Violet over with moisture in her eyes that catches the light of the candelabras along the walls. Her fingertips brush over Violet’s locket and she breathes a small sigh of relief, her dark lips upturning in the smallest of smiles.

“You look so much more like your mother now,” she says softly, and a sob finds its way out from deep within Violet’s chest. Katherine touches her cheek, squeezing her shoulder with the other hand. “No tears, child. This is a blessed day.”

Footsteps approach behind them, and Katherine’s dark eyes flick over Violet’s shoulder, her gaze hardening.

“You, young man, owe me quite the explanation.”

“Of course, Dame Montrose,” Dacian says, dipping his chin in deference. “Forgive me.”

“Forgiveness is between you and the Light,” Katherine says, looking back to Violet. “You’re here to stay, then?”

“Yes,” Violet replies, avoiding Katherine’s eyes for fear that she’ll see the hidden weight behind the word. A hint of a frown passes over the paladin’s controlled expression.

“I expect to hear the full story, and soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Violet says, shoulders sagging.

“Rest, child,” Katherine murmurs, and the familiar cool tingle of a blessing passes through Violet. Her frayed nerves soothe to only a dull buzz, and her chest loosens enough that she can take in a full breath on reflex. “Come back tomorrow, and you can tell me everything.”

Violet nods, not wanting to let go of the older woman, but a gentle hand on her shoulder draws her from her child-like clinging. Dacian offers her a small smile, nodding to Katherine, who watches them leave the room until they’re out of sight. Once outside again, Violet can’t help but smile when she finds that in the few short minutes they’d been inside the Cathedral, Hala has managed to make a number of new friends. The children crowd around her, much like the sin’dorei children had in Shattrath, fawning over her and speaking to her in smitten tones like she’s nothing more than a small puppy they could lift with both hands. Hala, for her part, seems to be enjoying the attention, though she does look wary of the tiny humans. It occurs to Violet that the worg has likely never been this close to this many humans at once, let alone children.

“Light above, come away from there, children!” A woman emerges from a building across the square, frantically running towards them with a broom clutched in her hands like a sword. With a sinking in her gut, Violet realizes that she’s the orphan matron, and that the children now pouting and giving a few last pats to Hala must be her charges from the orphanage. The older woman gives Violet a reproving look as she herds the orphans away, and Hala hangs her head as if she’s done something wrong.

“It’s all right, girl,” Violet assures her, untying her reins with a soft sigh. She should have known the worg would make people uncomfortable. After all, most of the citizens of Stormwind probably haven’t seen one since they bore their orcish masters when the city was destroyed at the end of the First War.

“She’s very docile,” Dacian comments, lifting his hand hesitantly towards Hala until she makes no indication of refusing his advance. He strokes gently at the worg’s neck. “Is that her true nature, I wonder, or is it her submitting to your other self?”

The comment, likely meant as nothing more than benign curiosity, stings unexpectedly in Violet’s chest. Immediately, her mind tells her that Tyri’el would have never said something so brash, that he understood her better than that, and—

Violet shakes her head to forcibly clear the thought. No good will come of thinking like that now, but the sentiment still lingers like an angry wraith, dogging her every step. This is her home now. This has to be her life, not whatever she’d hoped to have with Tyri’el. Dacian watches her wordlessly, and if he notices the turmoil inside her, he says nothing of it. Instead, he reaches out to take her hand.

“Come, little moon.” Dacian smiles, this one touching his eyes, and for just a moment, Violet can pretend that they’re just foolish teenagers again, caught up in the heady rush of a first love. They’d met here countless times, Dacian sneaking a few moments with her between his guard duties, kissing her and murmuring promises that someday they wouldn’t need to be so secretive. If only she could go back to being that naive girl, the one who still believed that life could be kind and that she had her whole life ahead of her. But now, standing here in the midst of a city she thought she’d never see again, the reverie fades away and Violet remembers every reason she has to think life is cruel and that she doesn’t belong here.

They move through the city, passing from Cathedral Square into the Dwarven District, and the stinging scent of the forges sends Hala into a sneezing fit of such force that the citizens give them a wide berth for the duration of their trip. Soon, the many sets of stairs leading up to the Keep come into view, and the dread at the back of Violet’s mind creeps towards the forefront. She’s been to Stormwind Keep before, to go before King Varian to prove that she was fully recovered from the Mindless State and was no danger to the citizens of his city. Doctor Arkwright had been there with her and that had kept her nerves in check, but she still remembers the sharp eyes of Katrana Prestor, and the imposing air of both the king and Highlord Fordragon. The broodmother of the Black Dragonflight is many months dead - word of Onyxia’s treachery and defeat reached every corner of Azeroth nearly as soon as her headless body had cooled - but her other two judges are still present within the white stone of the castle. She spends a moment asking the Light that they receive her kindly.

Instead of climbing the stairs, Dacian leads her towards a small portcullis off to one side, one that looks like it leads around the side of the Keep, and drops her hand. The guards stationed on either side salute as they approach, and the heavy metal gate between them creaks to life and beings to lift.

“Welcome back, Captain Goddard,” one of the guards says, eyeing both Violet and Hala from behind the slit in his helmet.

“As you were,” Dacian says, leading the way through the gate. Beyond is a long lane that runs parallel to the walls surrounding the Keep, housing what looks like a barracks and other buildings used by the royal guard. All along the way, guards stop to salute, watching the trio as they move up the gentle slope towards the Keep. Violet knows they’re staring at her, and she keeps her eyes trained low because of it.

“She’s all right around horses?” Dacian asks, stopping outside a large building that smells enough of animal that Violet knows it to be the guard stables.

“Yes,” she says simply, thinking absently that if Hala hadn’t devoured a stable full of hawkstriders, she’ll be able to cohabit with horses. Dacian calls for a stablehand, and a young teen responds, the poor lad nearly fainting at the sight of the near-white worg who only wags her tail and cocks her head to one side at the newcomer. Violet hands him the reins, trying to reassure him with a smile, and pats Hala’s neck. “You behave yourself.”

Hala grunts, seeming more curious of the boy than anything, and pads after him and into the stable after Dacian instructs him to give her the best care the stable can offer. Violet watches their retreating forms, now feeling very exposed and vulnerable without the worg’s hulking form beside her. The city is as foreign as it is familiar, and her hand finds her locket in an attempt to find any measure of comfort she can.

“Captain Goddard, thank the Light,” someone says, and Violet turns to find a royal guard approaching them with hurried steps. She stops just short of Dacian, straightening into a salute. Dacian waves away the gesture.

“What is it, Sutton?”

The guard glances at Violet, seeming to hesitate at her presence. Dacian moves a short distance away and she follows, and despite their hushed words, Violet can hear every word they say as if she’s standing beside them.

“The prince is gone again, sir.”

“Another outburst?”

“Aye, sir. Quite a loud one, at that. Gonna need to replace one of the chairs in the west drawing room.”

Dacian pinches at the bridge of his nose, glancing over at Violet for a moment, who tries to look anywhere but over at them.

“No word from Bayard?”

“None, sir.”

“And the Keep?”

“Swept from top to bottom twice now.”

“He can’t have gotten far. Send for Shaw just in case, but be discreet about it.”

“Aye, sir. Right away.” The guard hurries off, sparing a final curious glance at Violet, and Dacian comes back to stand beside her.

“Does the prince run away often?” She asks, not even feigning ignorance. Dacian sighs.

“He never used to. But ever since the mess with Onyxia and King Varian’s…ordeal, they’ve been at odds with each other over the smallest things.”

“Will he be all right?”

“His bodyguard is with him, so he’s safe enough.” Dacian sighs again. “I need to mobilize my men to search for him before too much hell is raised.”

“I understand,” Violet replies, and a small sense of relief overcomes her. With him occupied, she’ll have more time to sort her thoughts. Shooting her an apologetic look, Dacian leans in to press his lips to the crown of her head.

“Stay near the Keep, all right? Once we’ve found the prince, I’ll find you and get you settled in.”

“Be careful,” Violet says, and he flashes her a smile that soothes her nerves for just a moment. He’s gone in the next instant, rushing up the incline towards the Keep in a flash of blue and gold. Now, surrounded by strangers, Violet takes in a deep breath and looks around. She has no business at the Keep - she’s no noble, nor an adventurer seeking a new task or payment for one completed - and the city behind her feels like a looming monster waiting to devour her if she strays too far from the castle. A flash of nostalgia brings with it memories of long afternoons spent amongst the towering bookshelves of Stormwind’s library, and it seems as good a place as any to keep herself both busy and as far away from people as possible. If nothing else, it’s a quiet place to mourn.

Leaving the side avenue the same way she’d entered, Violet moves back towards the main approach to the Keep. It’s strange to walk in such a place so freely, having spent so much time under the watchful gaze of the Forsaken and Sylvanas’s banshees. Again, she wonders if whatever fascination the Banshee Queen had felt over her will be enough to warrant agents seeking her out, but as she ascends the grand stairs that lead up towards the Keep, she feels at least somewhat protected within the city’s walls. That thought brings with it a sense of freedom that lightens her step, but the mirth is quickly smothered by other, darker thoughts.

She could have escaped the Undercity at any time, could have snuck out and away on any of the menial tasks Sylvanas had sent her on, but she didn’t, all because of Tyri’el. He made that hellish place start to feel like home, and made whatever Sylvanas could throw at her seem almost worth it. Her steps grow heavy, boots smacking against the pavestones, and her lips curl back over her teeth as her thoughts spiral downward.

“Welcome to Stormwind Keep, miss. Can I direct you to somewhere in particular?”

The guard’s words startle Violet from her thoughts and she pauses, softening her expression from purely murderous to what she hopes looks only mildly perturbed. She’s standing at the base of the last, smaller staircase that leads up into the Keep itself, and the guard to one side of the double doors is looking at her like she might not have heard him.

“Miss, can I—”

“The library,” she says, even though she knows exactly where it is and how to get there.

“Up through the throne room and to your left past the gardens. Only about half an hour before they close for the night, so you’d best be quick on your way.”

Violet thanks him and enters the Keep, boots making barely a sound on the pale marble that makes up the long corridor that ramps up at a steady angle. Ahead of her, the Lionseat comes into view, the four golden lions seeming to watch her as she passes. The throne is empty, as is the throne room save for the guards posted at regular intervals, and she move through it quickly, forcing away thoughts of how terrified she’d been to go before the King and his advisers.

The garden is still in bloom, even this late into the summer, and a few people mill about, reading or conversing under the shade of verdant trees. Violet skirts around the edge of the pavilion without anyone taking notice, passing into the cool of the library with a sigh of relief. The smell of dust and parchment is thick in the air, but it’s quiet and nearly deserted as she’d hoped. The aging librarian nods to her from behind the main desk, and she does her best to look like any other book lover come to browse the shelves. At one point, she had very much been one, coming here to read about everything beyond the small Gilnean world she’d grown up in. At the moment, however, she feels like little more than a frightened mouse caught in a never-ending maze.

Dust motes dance through the slanted rays of the sunset that filter in through the light windows, illuminating her path as she makes her way towards the back of the library past rows and rows of books. The far corner is her goal, to the place against the wall where the last two bookshelves sit very close together as if they’d run out of space and crammed them together for the sake of fitting them in. It’s out of sight from the rest of the library, and the perfect place to hide with her calm facade crumbling as fast as her feet carry her.

One of the many tables placed throughout the library, this one very near to her destination, is not empty as she’d expected, instead occupied by a man only a few years her senior. He’s leaned back in his chair, a thick book propped up on one knee, and something about him immediately seems off to Violet. He looks up at her as she comes closer, eyes immediately finding the twin shortswords strapped to her belt. Only the smallest hint of a frown touches his otherwise disinterested expression, and he uncrosses his legs and shifts his arms. Something in Violet’s mind tells her he’s moving that way to ready himself to grab his own weapons, even though he looks completely unarmed. Instinctively, she unclasps her cloak and sets it on the next table over, doing the same with her belt and swords, making herself look like she’s come to settle in to read. The man relaxes minutely, and though his eyes go back to his book, Violet is still keenly aware of his eyes on her as she turns to pretend to browse the books on the nearest shelf. Of all the places for the one person in this damned library to choose to sit, this man had to sit here, where he could easily lean back to see over to the very place she’s trying to hide herself away in.

Raising her hand as if to scan the titles on the spines of the books she passes, Violet makes her way towards the last two bookshelves, moving as slowly and innocently as she can. Something still tells her that man is watching her, but she ignores him and makes her way around the last corner of the bookshelf, the days events rising up like a tidal wave with the promise of relief if she can only—

Violet stops, sensing movement against the wall in the corner. There, with his knees to his chest and his head in his hands, is a teenage boy. Light from the windows plays on the sheen of his hair, a shade of gold nearly the same as Violet’s, and though his face is covered, the small gasps that escape him are unmistakable as those made by quiet tears. Behind her, the man clears his throat, and the teen startles, lifting his head to blink tears away from his wide, deep blue eyes. Something about him looks so lost, and Violet’s heart aches at the familiar expression, one she’s on the verge of right now. The teen doesn’t look scared, but rather like he’s been caught with sneaking into Hallow’s End candy he’s been told he can’t eat.

“I should have known my secret hiding spot wasn’t so secret,” Violet says gently, and for a surreal moment, her ears tell her she sounds very much like her mother. The boy blinks at her again, eyes shifting to look past her, before they fall to his hands where they’re fisted into the fabric of his pants.

“No one has found me here before,” he says, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Violet replies, and the boy looks relieved. Having already let down her guard in anticipation of breaking down where no one could see her, she feels the weight on her heart much heavier now, and it must show on her face because the teen scoots towards the far bookshelf and gestures to the vacated spot beside him.

“Would you like to join me?” He asks, surprisingly earnest in his offer. Then, with his blond eyebrows drawing together in concern, he adds, “You look like you need someplace to hide, too.”

“I suppose I do,” Violet says, moving to sit beside him with her back to the cool stone of the wall. As if standing was the last thing keeping her emotions in check, she begins to weep, shoulders shaking as the hole in her chest opens anew. None of this should be happening. Stormwind is not where she belongs. For the hundredth time, she begs the Light to take her back to this morning, to when she’d woken up next to Tyri’el and had her entire life with him to look forward to. Everything good in her life is always ripped from her so suddenly, no matter how much she’d believed that he would be the new constant that would finally bring her peace. The ache in her chest takes her breath away, and she leans her head back against the wall, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle her sobs. For a few minutes, she allows herself to release her grief, until she’s lightheaded and her stomach churns uneasily. The raw pain is still present deep inside her, but the tears subside enough for her to calm her breathing. Opening her eyes, she finds the teen watching her with clear worry, though he immediately looks away when her eyes meet his.

“Better?” He asks, and Violet nods.

“For now,” she says, knowing the tears won’t stay away for long.

“I don’t mean to pry, but…what is it that you’re hiding from?”

Violet looks over at him, finding nothing but honest curiosity.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she replies, and the boy lets out a long breath through his nose.

“My father hates me.”

Violet blinks in surprise at the conviction in his words, at the thinly-veiled hurt just below the blunt statement.

“What makes you think that?”

“I just…I just know.” He purses his lips in an almost-frown, as if he’s trying hard not to show emotion. “He didn’t used to. Or, maybe he did and…”

Violet frowns, watching him curl inward, his arms crossing over his chest like he’s hugging himself as he hangs his head.

“He went away for a time, and when he came back…he’d changed. Everything I do, or don’t do…or can’t, or won’t…” The boy closes his eyes, fresh tears falling from under blond lashes. “I know he can’t help that he gets angry, but I can’t help but wonder if he was always disappointed in me. If I was always a failure in his eyes.”

Thinking on his words, Violet feels suddenly very maternal towards the teen, but she resists the urge to put her arm around him.

“Do you think you’re a failure?” She asks finally, and he opens his eyes, sniffing as he looks up at her.

“I…sometimes I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I…I’m not like him. I’m not strong.” He shakes his head. “I’m not what he wants me to be.”

“We can’t always be what our parents want us to be,” Violet says, and in her mind’s eye, she sees her mother, weeping and pleading desperately with her to not go with Uther, to stay with her in Gilneas. She’d begged her not to become a paladin, even though she’d filled her head with the highest praise for her father, who’d been a member of The Silver Hand. Because of that impossible fantasy, she’d left her mother and gone to Lordaeron to chase after the man she’s never known. “But that isn’t up to them to decide.”

“But it is,” the boy exclaims, hands raising in frustration. “I have to be like him. It’s my duty.”

Violet’s frown deepens.

“And what about your duty to yourself? What do you want?”

Looking up at her in confusion with eyes much older than his face, he squares his shoulders and his voice takes on a monotone quality, as if he’s rehearsed his words many times before.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. My duty is to my…” He trails off, ducking his head as if he’s just caught himself about to say something he shouldn’t, and falls quiet for a time. Violet says nothing, but the desperation she sees in him reminds her of Tyri’el, of how he’d agonized over the prospect of being made to rule his people. The teen wipes at his eyes with a soft sigh and looks at her. “What are you hiding from?”

“Myself, mostly,” Violet admits, watching the clouds roll past the windows on the other side of the library.

“Why?”

She looks over at him, studying his face and the intent held there. Nothing in his expression tells her there’s anything but genuine curiosity behind his question.

“I hurt someone I love very dearly,” she replies, the ache in her chest growing sharp enough that she rubs at it before her hand closes around her necklace.

“Was that your intent?”

“Light, no,” she says immediately, closing her eyes for a moment. “I was betrothed to someone, but he died a few months before we were to be wed. I mourned him for nearly two years but…

The boy waits patiently as she tries to form this whole mess into a few simple sentences.

“I fell in love with someone else, only to discover that my betrothed…” Violet sighs angrily, too disgusted with herself to finish her sentence.

“He didn’t die,” the boy ventures, and Violet nods.

“And now the man I love with everything I am wants nothing to do with me, and I’m to be shackled to someone who…who I…I don’t even…” A violent sob wracks her body, choking off her words, and her hand moves from her necklace to cover her mouth. A light pressure on her arm startles her, and she looks down to find the boy has placed his hand there in a wordless attempt to comfort her.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and she shakes her head, drawing in a shaky breath.

“Don’t be,” she manages.

“I still am,” he says, looking at her in earnest before letting out a short, dry chuckle. “Suddenly, the argument with my father seems so trivial.”

Somewhere in the library, a clock chimes nine, and the boy sighs.

“And now the library is closing. I suppose I’ll have to face him.”

“He won’t…hurt you, will he?” That maternal feeling returns, bringing a rise of anger that pushes past the grief for just a moment.

“No,” the boy replies, shaking his head and clearing the drying tears from his cheeks with his sleeve. “He would never lay a hand on me, I’m certain of it. But he…he just yells.”

“Do you live nearby?” Violet asks, wiping her own cheeks.

“Near enough.”

“It’s getting late. Why don’t I make sure you get back to him all right?”

“That’s really not necessary—”

“It’s the least I can do,” Violet says, hoisting herself to her feet and brushing the dust from her trousers. She offers him her hand.

“Really, I—”

“Come on,” she says, reaching down to grab his hand. He stands quickly, cheeks flushing, and tries to sputter out another argument, but Violet is already pulling him down the aisle towards the end of the bookshelves. They come around the corner and nearly run into someone.

“Highness, there you are,” an elderly man says, putting his hand on his chest in relief. “I had a feeling I might find you here. Your father worrying himself sick trying to find you.”

“Forgive me, Wyll,” the boy says, and Violet turns to look at him with wide eyes.

“Highness?” She says, voice spiking, and she immediately drops his hand, holding up both of hers in a placating gesture. “Light above, I am so sorry.”

“It’s quite all right,” he says, offering a genuine, if not somewhat embarrassed smile. The man who had been reading at the nearby table comes up behind him, crossing his arms over his chest and appraising her again. “I’m very glad to have met you, ah…”

“Violet, your Highness,” Violet says, dropping into a hurried bow.

“I wish you luck with your troubles, Violet. And…thank you for your words on mine.”

“Of course.”

“Come, Highness. You’ve a few things to tend to before you retire for the evening.”

The elderly man nods politely to Violet and gestures for the prince to follow him.

“Good evening, then,” the prince says with a bright but reserved smile, though there’s still a hint of sadness in his voice. He follows his manservant away, his bodyguard following closely after, and Violet is left to stare after them in absolute mortification. She’d just divulged her worst mistake to the future king of the entire Alliance, and what’s more, she’d been privy to a very private side of him that no common citizen has any right to see.

With the prince found, Dacian will be looking for her soon, and even though the library is larger than any grand ballroom, Violet starts to feel very claustrophobic. A few moments to let loose every bit of her that’s screaming out in self-loathing hasn’t been nearly enough, and the feeling of being hopelessly trapped only gets worse at the thought of having to keep it all to herself for the foreseeable future, likely for the rest of her life. Her pulse races, and in the back of her mind, she feels her other self trying to tempt her to just abandon it all and run.

She knows she can’t.

This is the grave she dug for herself, and Stormwind is where she must lie in it.


	3. The Wolf

Dacian finds Violet in the garden off the Keep, her back against one of the flowering trees and her fingertips stained green from rolling plucked blades of grass between them. Her eyes are far away, half-lidded as she stares up at the night sky without really seeing the faint twinkling of stars there. When she senses him approaching, she blinks a few times, eyes dry but still stinging, and tilts her head to look over at him.

“I thought I might find you somewhere around here,” he says, smiling down at her. Moonlight plays on his face, on the strong lines of his jaw and the clear blue of his eyes, and Violet feels a small flutter in her gut as if she was only fourteen again. Dacian offers her his hand, and she takes it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet and held snug against his chest. He murmurs in her ear, his cheek pressed to her temple. “Keeping yourself out of trouble, I hope?”

“Not exactly,” she replies, sparing a passing glance at the now-closed double doors that lead into the library. “I may have assaulted the crown prince of Stormwind while you were away.”

“Mm, so I’ve heard,” Dacian says, and Violet goes rigid in mortification. Whatever stern glare he tries to set her with when she pulls back to look at him lasts only a few moments before dissolving into a wry smile.

“I didn’t know it was him!” Violet insists, face darkening in shame as she holds up her hands in exasperation.

“No harm done, little moon,” Dacian assures her with a soft kiss on her forehead. “His bodyguard didn’t seem to think you were much of a threat.”

Violet snorts, wondering just how good of a guard that man could possibly be, before another jolt of dread runs through her.

“He doesn’t answer to you, does he?”

“Not directly, no. Bayard is an SI:7 agent, so he answers to Spymaster Shaw.” Dacian’s formerly amused expression darkens with the beginnings of a frown. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Violet says, now thoroughly relieved. For the briefest of moments, she had feared word of her conversation, which had definitely been overheard by the ears of a highly-trained rogue, would make its way back to Dacian, but that fear is soothed for the moment. Realizing he’s still looking at her in question, she fumbles for more of an answer. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around how everything works here.”

“You’ll get used to it. This is your home now.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Violet swallows hard, biting into her cheek to keep tears from pricking at her eyes.

“I’ve had quarters made up for you within the Keep.” Dacian leads her from the garden and back into the throne room, speaking quietly as they go. “They’re fairly spartan right now, but I can speak to a few people to make them more comfortable over the next few days.”

“Quarters?” Violet asks, looking up with her brows drawing together. “I won’t be staying with you?”

“I’m afraid not,” he replies, shoulders sagging, and he’s silent until they’re through the doors on the far side of the throne room and into a part of the Keep she’s sure only nobles and royal servants are allowed to enter. Dacian draws her to the side, into a small alcove, before speaking with a grim finality in his voice. “Because we’ve yet to be married, propriety dictates that we can’t share a living space.”

Violet frowns, and the thought of having to sleep alone in this massive, foreign structure sets her heart racing and her stomach twisting in knots.

“I’m sorry, Vi,” Dacian says, taking her hands in his when he sees the panic flicker behind her eyes. “I wish it could be different.”

“I’ll be all right,” Violet says, barely blinking away tears, and she hopes that if she just says it enough, this familiar lie will start to turn into truth.

“I’m always just a few moments away. Any of my men will be able to find me quickly should you…should things start to get bad.”

He doesn’t have to say any more. She knows what he’s referring to, and she prays to the Light that she’ll never need him to calm her here, to keep her from unleashing the beast inside her. Nodding more to herself than to him, Violet chews on her lower lip, and Dacian responds by taking her chin gently with his thumb and forefinger. He studies her face as if he’s memorizing it before leaning down to kiss her. The gentle touch of his lips is enough to break her resolve, and Dacian pulls away when he realized she’s started to cry.

“What is it?” He asks, and Violet bites her lip again, this time much harder, and shakes her head.

“It’s been a long day,” she says, taking comfort in the fact that it’s not a lie, not entirely. Dacian doesn’t question her further, instead guiding her deeper into the Keep. Though she tries to memorize the twists and turns they take, Violet quickly gives up on any hope that she’ll remember how she finds herself a few stories up and standing outside a door.

“This is you,” he says, opening the door but staying out in the hall. “Rest now, little moon. I’m never far away.”

What he means as a reassurance only pushes her further towards the ever-present threat of a complete breakdown, and Violet rakes in a sharp breath in response.

“I’ll send someone to fetch you come morning. I want to introduce you to everyone as soon as possible.”

“Everyone?” Violet asks, and she can feel herself detaching from reality by the way her own words sound slightly muffled as they meet her ears.

“The king, and Highlord Fordragon.”

“I’ve already met them.”

“Not since…and not as my betrothed.” He’s frowning, but she can’t bring herself to care. Again, her other self snarls in her head and urges her to run, conflicting with how every inch of her body feels heavy and sluggish with exhaustion. She feels his lips on her forehead and hears him urge her to rest again, and by the time she comes out of her daze, she’s somehow made it into the room and collapsed face-first onto the bed inside. Deep sobs wrack at her, and she curls into a ball with her knees hugged against her chest, and she prays beyond hope that this is all some figment of her imagination. Soon, she’ll open her eyes and find herself waking in Tyri’el’s arms with his shallow breaths against the hollow of her ear. He’ll hold her tight and tell her it was only a nightmare and that he would never leave her, never abandon her and leave her at her own mercy.

When Violet wakes, it’s not to soft sunshine and his familiar warmth all around her. She finds herself alone in an empty bed, bathed in uncaring moonlight that streams into the otherwise darkened room through tall windows. Still curled into a tight ball with one hand clenched around her necklace, Violet looks to the timepiece over the mantle to find that she’s only managed a few hours of fitful sleep. Exhaustion still clings to her body like a second skin, but as she rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling, she finds that her mind is not the least bit tired, instead racing with thoughts that gradually turn very dark.

In an effort to clear her mind, she rises from the bed and leaves her room, attempting to find her way back down to the ground floor, but she quickly loses all notion of where she is within the never-ending hallways and corridors of the Keep. There’s a kind of peace that exists in this unfamiliar place, as if being utterly lost has somehow alleviated some of her panic. Violet takes to studying the paintings and statues she passes, finally coming into a long expanse of wide hallway lined with nothing but portraits of the city’s former rulers. Many are likely reproductions, given that the Keep was completely destroyed by the orcish Horde at the end of the First War, but the collection is extensive and offers a welcome distraction. By far, the largest of the frames is the one depicting King Llane and Queen Taria, and by the way the very edges of the canvas are darkened with char marks, this one is likely an original, somehow saved from the city’s wreckage all those years ago. Violet stares up at their towering likenesses, wondering what kind of rulers they had been.

“Turn around slowly.” A deep, gruff voice startles Violet, and she feels a point of cold metal pressing into the flesh at the back of her neck. Though she hasn’t been paying full attention to her surroundings, she’s certain she would have heard someone approaching. She does as she’s instructed, hands held out to the sides to show she’s unarmed, and turns to face her subduer. The tip of a dual-bladed sword presses into the space where her collarbones meet, and at the other end of the impressive weapon stands a figure who, at the moment, is more beast than man. His upper lip curls back over his teeth. “Identify yourself.”

Varian Wrynn stares her down, his eyes wolf-like as he waits for her to speak. Such an intense stare immediately triggers Violet’s self-defense instincts, and she feels her other self prowling dangerously close to the forefront of her mind. While she feels the overwhelming urge to look away, to show deference to her king, the proud beast inside her refuses to back down and submit. Something about him rouses an animalistic reaction within her, as if he, too, has a wolf living just beneath his skin. He smells human to her sensitive nose, but her other self is not so sure, goading her on to challenge him. The instinct comes from so deep within her that she can’t fight it, and for the briefest of moments, her eyes blaze golden as the wolf inside her dares him to accept. The chaotic reddish energy blazing in Shalamayne’s core flashes as its owner grips its hilt tighter, something like a growl coming from deep within his chest.

“Identify yourself,” he says again, stray strands of dark hair falling over his face. His eyes stay locked with hers and they stare each other down until her other self begrudgingly admits defeat and slinks back into the depths of her cage. With the feral mindset gone, Violet’s eyes widen in horror at her brashness, and she swallows hard, finding that the king is still watching her with they eyes of an apex predator.

“My name is Violet Devereaux, your majesty,” she begins, speaking as calmly as she can manage. “I’m staying here in the castle. I’m Dacian — Captain Goddard’s betrothed. Please, forgive me.”

The king’s eyes narrow and he looks her up and down as if he’s trying to gauge the truth of her statement. With a short grunt, he lowers his sword, the tip clanking against the stone floor, and he backs up a step from where he’d had her pressed against the wall. Violet puts her hand to her throat, finding only a pinprick of blood on the skin there. She looks back to the king, now noticing that he’s wearing only a pair of loose sleep pants, his long hair falling wild and untamed over his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, sparing a glance up at the portrait of his parents that results in the tiniest of winces before his eyes settle back onto her.

“I couldn’t sleep, sire.”

Varian responds with another short huff of air, and Violet begins to apologize again, to tell him she’ll go back to her room and forget she ever had the gall to challenge him, but he motions with his head and turns on his heel. Pausing for a moment in confusion, Violet follows the king down the corridor, unsure of his intentions, or of how much of a distance she should keep between them. They come to a door flanked on either side by an armed guard, and the king pushes it open with a short look over his shoulder to see if she’s following him.

The room beyond is a study of some kind, the floor-to-ceiling windows uncovered by the rich blue drapes that hang on either side of them. Varian shuffles over to a large, solid wood desk and rests Shalamayne against one side, pulling on a robe that’s slung over the back of the chair there. One of the guards pulls the door shut behind Violet where she’s frozen in the doorway, and though it’s dark, she can swear the man gives her a look of sympathy before the door clicks closed. When she looks back to the king, he’s over by the hearth, fiddling with a dial on the wall until the bed of coals springs to life with gnomish fire. The light of the flames makes the angles of his face all the more striking, dancing across the scar that runs under his eyes from cheek to cheek. It also highlights the deep circles set under his eyes, and Violet wonders how long he’s gone without a proper night’s rest.

“Please, sit,” he says, his voice still deep but no longer menacing. He runs a hand down his face, gesturing with the other to one of the highback chairs set out before the hearth. Violet obeys, still very much on edge, and whether it’s her own instincts or those of her other self, she can’t be sure. The king sits in the chair opposite her, staring into the flames for a long, tense moment before he looks over at her. “I was under the impression that Captain Goddard’s betrothed was killed by gnolls in Loch Modan.”

“I was,” Violet says, her tired mind not framing her thoughts coherently. The king raises a dark eyebrow, and she shakes her head. “Forgive me. Both Dacian and I thought the other had perished, and until today, neither of us knew that we had both come away alive.”

Varian seems to think on her words, and he studies her for a moment. She fidgets under his gaze, wondering exactly how improper a late-night visit with the king really is. Realization flashes across his face, as if he’s been trying to call up a memory he can barely grasp.

“We’ve met before,” he says finally, eyes settling on the locket around her neck, and Violet barely stops herself from reaching up to grasp it. “You’re Doctor Arkwright’s adoptive daughter.”

“I was, yes,” Violet replies, eyes dropping to her hands where they rest in her lap. “I understand if you want me out of your city, your majesty.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Varian says, and Violet looks up at him, doing nothing to mask her shock at his words. “It’s evident to me that you have the beast on a short leash.”

“I do, your majesty,” Violet replies, both relieved and disappointed at his observation. If he’d simply ordered her to leave Stormwind, there would be nothing Dacian could do to keep her here, and she would be free to—

“Your family was killed quite some time ago, and there’s been no sign of you since.” Varian’s eyes narrow again. “How is it you’ve escaped the notice of SI:7 for so long?”

“Sire?” Violet pales, caught off guard by the question.

“Given your…unique circumstances, it would have been criminally foolish of me not to have agents keeping an eye on you while in Stormwind. It’s my understanding that no body was ever found, and some of my best agents could find no trace of you past the camp outside Thelsamar.”

“I…can’t say, sire.” The memories from that time are murky with fear and grief, and her lack of remembrance must show on her face, because the king frowns. Sighing in defeat at the mess of images and sounds and smells, Violet looks up at him. “I can say with certainty that I wasn’t trying to evade your agents, your majesty. I was only trying to survive.”

“Where did you go?”

“North. I ran north. I was well into the Wetlands before I came back to my senses.”

“Is that where you’ve been these past years?”

“No, sire.”

Varian sighs. Before he can voice his thoughts, Violet speaks.

“Forgive me, your majesty. I’m not trying to be subversive. It’s just that…very recently, I had my memories tampered with. Much of my time away from Stormwind has been taken from me.”

“To what end?” This seems to interest Varian greatly, and he leans forward in his chair.

“I’m not entirely certain.” Violet rubs at her upper arm, at the tender flesh under her shirtsleeve, and stares into the fire. “Best I’ve been able to piece together is that not long after my family was killed, I was initiated into the ranks of something called Ravenholdt, and that I somehow fell out of favor with them.”

“You’re a rogue?” Varian asks, head tilting to one side the slightest bit as he looks her over again.

“I was. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“I’ll have SI:7 look into it.”

“Thank you, sire. It’s…unsettling to have lost so much of myself without knowing the reasons why.”

Varian nods, his eyes far away, and he seems lost in his thoughts for a few moments before he blinks and rubs at his eyes.

“My agents are very thorough. Is there anything else they’re going to find out about you that I should be made aware of?”

Violet swallows hard, the reflexive action undoubtedly caught by the king’s keen eyes.

“A few months ago, I was captured by the Horde.”

She can hear Varian shift in his seat, even though she can’t see him from where her eyes are tracing the patterns of the fine rug beneath her feet.

“Were you acting on behalf of Ravenholdt?”

“No, sire.” That much is clear in her mind, and her hands curl into fists in her lap. “I was on a mission of personal vengeance.”

There’s fire in her eyes as she speaks.

“A kaldorei, one I thought of as my sister, was murdered by trolls in Arathi. I tracked them into Hillsbrad and killed them, but in my recklessness, I was gravely wounded. I woke up within the Undercity and…I was made a slave of the Banshee Queen.”

Something like pity, or perhaps understanding, overcomes the king, and whatever suspicious fury he wore on his face fades.

“It was only after I proved myself a capable fighter that Sylvanas saw me fit to be made more than a scullery maid.”

“What did she make of you?”

“An indentured blade. An agent but still a slave.” Violet sneers as she speaks. “A bodyguard for one of her favored subjects.”

“And you only just escaped?”

Violet nods, letting her grief simmer low in the back of her mind as she dwells on the still very present rage at everything Sylvanas did to her.

“It took time. I was watched at every turn.” She forces her hands to unclench, acutely aware of the crescent-shaped indents her fingernails have left in her palms. “I may yet be.”

Varian seems even more interested in her tale now.

“How much time did you spend in the Undercity?”

“Far too much.”

“Long enough to detail a layout to a cartographer? Such information could be invaluable to the Alliance.”

“Absolutely,” Violet replies, a smirk playing on her lips at the thought of Sylvanas losing her precious city. It’s a bittersweet sentiment, and her smile turns to a sneer at the thought that the witch never should have had the chance to rule the city in the first place. “The Forsaken defiled the city. It’s no longer…King Terenas would weep at the sight of his kingdom as it stands today.”

The king makes a non-committal sound in the back of his throat, rising from his chair to pull a decanter of something from a credenza on the other side of the room. He pours two glasses of a dark, honey-colored liquid, handing one to her as he returns to his seat. Violet thanks him quietly, taking a generous drink with a completely straight face. Whatever it is, it’s strong, and she focuses on the burn it leaves to keep her grounded. Varian nurses his own drink, shifting in his seat to lean down with his elbows resting on his knees. It strikes Violet as a very casual pose, one she doesn’t expect from the High King. He looks haggard, tired, and again, she wonders if her being here with him is at all improper.

“Are you from Lordaeron?” Varian looks up at her, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “I can’t place your accent.”

“I was born in Gilneas, but I spent a few years in Capital City before the plague struck.” An unbidden image floods Violet’s mind with such intensity that she outwardly winces. High Inquisitor Whitemane, her eyes blazing red behind the gold of the Light, sneers at her, telling her that everything she knew about her mother was a lie. That night, feeling like it was lifetimes ago rather than only a few short months, had stayed dutifully locked away, but the emotions - the confusion, the hurt - now come back to her tenfold, and she finds herself speaking. “My mother was from Lordaeron.”

Lost as she is in her thoughts, she doesn’t see the way Varian is looking at her, and doesn’t see his initial puzzlement or the way his face alights with realization.

“You introduced yourself as Devereaux. Was that your family name before Doctor Arkwright adopted you?”

“It was my mother’s maiden name. I’ve used it since my family was killed.” Violet meets his eyes with confusion. “Why do you ask, sire?”

“Your mother, what was her name?”

Violet pauses, caught completely off guard by his question.

“Her name was Eliana.”

Varian blinks, again scrutinizing Violet in a way that makes her feel like a butterfly trapped under glass. Time drags on as she waits for him to speak again, afraid of what he might say, and finally, he sighs.

“You look very much like her.” He looks down into his drink, swirling the liquid around in the glass.

“You…you knew my mother? Your majesty.” She adds the formality as an afterthought, head reeling as she tries to make sense of his words. Varian nods, his eyes far away again.

“She was one of the first citizens of Capital City I met when we came north after…” The king trails off, crossing his arms over his chest and settling back into his chair. “We arrived in the dead of winter, nearly frozen to death, and your grandfather ran himself ragged seeing that our horses had proper quarter.”

Frowning, Violet sets down her glass and finds her locket with both hands. Her mother had never spoken of her own parents, and her aunt would change the subject whenever her niece asked questions. Some part of her had hoped Whitemane had been lying to her, only goading her with whatever she could think of, but now…now she can’t be certain.

“I slipped on the ice outside the royal stables and cut my knee,” Varian continues, his stoic expression softening a bit around his eyes. “Eliana picked me up off the floor and sat me down so she could heal it.”

“She was a priestess, then,” Violet says, softly and to herself, but Varian hears her.

“A powerful one, at that,” he says, brows drawing together. “I can’t imagine you didn’t know that about her.”

“There’s much she neglected to tell me, it seems.” Her grip tightens on her locket, and it feels almost warm against her palm. “It was only a few months past that I learned she was born in Lordaeron.”

“She was the daughter of the royal stablemaster, Warford,” Varian says. He looks troubled at her statement, and takes a drink with a pensive air about him. “I only knew her for the few years I lived in Capital City, but I remember her very well.”

Scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands, Violet hates herself for showing such emotion in front of the king. Of all the people who might have once known her mother, she has to learn such things from him, from the leader of the entire Alliance. She takes her glass again, wanting very much to drain it dry so that maybe, just maybe, her chest will stop aching, but she never lifts it to her lips. She needs a clear head to process what she’s learned.

“She was kind, your mother. Stubborn, too.” Varian smiles into his drink, as if remembering some long-ago encounter. “Arthas was very fond of her.”

Violet hears the words, but there’s a few moments of disconnect before she fully registers what he’s said. Her hand tightens around her glass, enough so that some part of her mind warns her that much more pressure will shatter it between her fingers. Unbeknownst to her where her eyes are cloudy and unfocused by tears, Varian looks up at her and studies her a bit more intently now, briefly curious before understanding shows in his eyes.

“She…she knew him?” Violet meets his eyes, a low growl building in her voice. “He was her _friend_?”

Varian must notice the change within her because his eyes flick over to Shalamayne where it rests against his desk.

“It wasn’t my intention to upset you,” the king says, and though his words are low and calm, there’s subtle command in them. “I won’t speak of your mother again.”

Violet forces herself to calm down, knowing that she can’t give the beast in her head an inch of ground without giving her a mile. This is not the place to lose herself, not so close to the king. She’d promised him that she was in full control, and she takes a deep, steadying breath to ground herself. Still her body trembles, and there’s strain in her voice when she speaks.

“No, your majesty, the fault is mine. It’s just that…my mother…she died in Stratholme.”

Varian curses under his breath and runs a hand through his hair.

“I am sorry for your loss. I always thought her a good person,” he says, and Violet nods, setting down her glass. The walls start to shift and press inward, and she feels herself barely holding onto what little control of herself she has left. She needs to leave, to put space between her and anyone she could hurt.

“Thank you, sire. That means a great deal to me.” She rises from her chair. “By your leave, I think I’ll try for sleep again.”

“I hope you find it,” Varian replies, rising as well. “Goodnight, Violet.”

“Goodnight, your majesty.” Violet moves towards the door, almost to freedom, but finds herself yanked roughly backwards by a hand on her bicep. She turns back, once again staring into the eyes of someone more beast than man.

“If you ever lose control, _ever_ pose a threat to my son or to my city,” Lo’Gosh breathes with a low, husky growl, mere inches from her face. “I will not hesitate to put you _down_.”


	4. What Joy Is There

Dawn breaks far too early, and yet, not early enough.

Tyri’el lies flat on his back, arms hugged to his chest and hands resting one on top of the other as if he’s laid out for his own funeral pyre. He’s been this way all through the night, staring up at the ceiling with eyes half-lidded and stinging from tears that will no longer come. The bedroom around him is cold, robbed of any warmth not by the lack of fire, but because the space beside him is empty. It’s too quiet, too still, without Violet’s soft breaths and occasional sighs, and though the first fingers of artificial dawn reach through the windows, the world seems irreparably dark.

With a dull throbbing at the base of his skull, Tyri’el blinks hard and heaves himself upright. He cards a hand through his hair and works out whatever small knots he finds, finally resting his hands in his lap and curling them into fists. His fingernails fit perfectly into the tender half-moon indents still left in his palms, and the sting of the irritated flesh helps bring him from the last of his daze. He can’t afford to allow himself any distraction, not when he has so much work to do, so he pushes away all thoughts of sea-green eyes and gentle smiles, locking them away in the farthest reaches of his mind. It proves effective at clearing his mind, though his chest still aches like there’s a sword driven to the hilt through his sternum, and he rubs at it absently.

The little timepiece on the mantle lets out a short chime to announce the hour, and he takes that as his cue to swing his legs over the side of the bed and rise to his feet. At first, he doesn’t bother to look at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he washes the lack of sleep from his face, but he hears his mother’s voice in his head telling him he must make himself look presentable for the meeting with the Council of Six, and he begrudgingly obeys. Were he anywhere else in the world, he would simply mask the dark circles under his eyes with a spell, but in a city of mages, it would only draw unwanted attention to his already haggard state. He’ll have to make due and go about cleaning himself up the non-magical way.

After a short bath in water he doesn’t bother to heat, Tyri’el returns to the bedroom to dig through his pack for a change of clothes and his hairbrush. His shirt catches on something on the way out, and he yanks hard to free it, sending several items flying out and onto the floor. Among them is the gilded trinket box his father had given him before shoving him through the portal in Tempest Keep. It hits the hardwood at an angle and springs open, the small, gem-like ember rolling across the floor, and Tyri’el drops his clothes and rushes after it. He catches it within a few steps, its smooth surface warm against his palm as he returns it to its box, and instead of closing the lid, he finds himself captivated by the myriad of colors flickering across the ember’s surface. It looks no brighter now than it had when he’d last checked it.

“You’ve abandoned me, too, haven’t you?” He asks it, and receives no response past a lazy swirl of color from its depths. A frown sours his features, and he waits a heartbeat longer before snapping shut the lid and stowing the box in the drawer of the bedside table. Pulling on his clothes, he brushes out his hair and dries it with a quick spell before trudging down the stairs with heavy footfalls.

Despite the uneasy weight in his gut that makes the thought of food almost nauseating, his stomach growls to remind him that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch, and he conjures himself a muffin as he comes down to the first floor. Laid out on the kitchen table he finds a basket of foodstuffs and household items, including a copper tea kettle, which he fills with water from the tap and sets a small fire in the kitchen stove to start it boiling. Upon closer inspection, he finds a note nestled amongst the items in the basket.

 

 _A housewarming gift, to welcome you to our city and into the Kirin Tor. Hopefully the selection is to your liking._  
  
_— Khadgar_  
  
_P.S. Try the brownies. They are divine._

 

A smudge of chocolate frosting, looking as if it had been hastily and incompletely wiped from the parchment, stains the lower corner of the note, and Tyri’el almost smiles. Almost.

By the time the kettle starts to whistle, Tyri’el has fished out a tin of fragrant tea leaves and a pot of honey, and he goes about making himself a cup of tea, hoping it might calm his nerves. He’s been present for countless diplomatic meetings, ranging in topic from simple renegotiations of pay for the resident Farstrider peacekeepers in Tranquillien to the overall decision for the quel’dorei to secede from the Alliance at the close of the Second War, but for the vast majority, he had been a silent participant of little importance. Never has his voice carried much weight, and he’s certainly never been the second in command of anything as important as what he’s about to undertake. Such responsibility feels ill-suited to him, but he knows that it’s a necessary undertaking if the Lich King has awakened once more.

Sipping idly at his tea and taking small bites of the conjured muffin when his stomach agrees to it, he continues to look through the basket of goods, if only for some kind of distraction. The food, while it might be appetizing at any other time, only unsettles his stomach more, and the various mundane household items seem pointless - after all, this is just a house, not his home. It might have been, if Violet was here, and if the mere thought of her didn’t feel like a sucker-punch to the gut. His fingers find a small bottle, its cork sealed with dark red wax, and he inspects it closer, finding that it’s a bottle of Alterac Brandy. He allows himself a small smile, met with memories of getting spectacularly drunk with Hathir, back when they’d first come to Dalaran and had never tasted anything stronger than Suntouched Special Reserve. What he wouldn’t give to be that young man again, to be wide-eyed and optimistic with a family and a future.

With grim determination, Tyri’el breaks the seal on the bottle and pours two-finger’s worth into his tea.

 

—

 

The meeting with the Council of Six lasts well past noon, and though most of it consists of tedious planning - numbers of guards needed and where they’ll be posted throughout Sunreaver Sanctuary, permits for operating portals to Horde capital cities, and other such trivial details - Tyri’el comes away from it feeling as if they’ve made good progress. He also comes away with a stack of official announcements, one for the leaders of each Horde race, announcing Dalaran’s move to neutrality and welcoming them to send delegates to the city as soon as the barrier comes down. Aethas volunteers to deliver the letters to Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff, stating that he has need to visit Kalimdor anyway, and leaves his second-in-command with two letters, one for Silvermoon and one for the Undercity. Members of the Silver Covenant are dispatched to deliver news to the kingdoms of the Alliance.

Delivering the announcement to Lor’themar will be easy enough, but an audience with Sylvanas will be more trying without a doubt. Not only does he have to deliver the rather benign neutrality announcement, but also a formal writ of resignation as her Royal Scribe. While potentially uncomfortable, that conversation doesn’t stir nearly as much dread as the knowledge that he has to tell the Dark Lady that Violet is as good as lost to her, likely already back in Stormwind as of the previous night. He remembers with perfect clarity how her interest in the human had bordered on obsession, and how readily she’d subjected her to servitude, as if she took some personal pleasure in humiliating and degrading Violet. It still stirs rage deep in his chest, but it seems muted now, like cloth bleached of color by harsh sunlight.

With Aethas’s help, Tyri’el opens a portal to the Magic Quarter, and with a short goodbye, he steps through it. The putrid, nearly cloying stench of decay washes over him in a foul wave, and as he moves away from the closing portal towards the Royal Quarter, he reminds himself that he won’t have to endure the place much longer. No one pays him much mind as he moves through the city, and he only nods in greeting when one of the citizens acknowledges him first. The corridor down to the throne room has never stretched on so long, and never felt as narrow as it does now, but he finally reaches the end of it, only to find that the throne is empty and Sylvanas is nowhere to be seen. Even Varimathras’s hulking figure is absent from its place beside the throne, something that strikes Tyri’el as far more unsettling than the queen’s own absence. The dreadlord has been a near-constant presence at the top of the dais, more like an ever-present statue than an adviser, and Tyri’el begins to feel that something is terribly amiss.

“The Banshee Queen is not here, little king,” comes a deep, silky-as-shadow voice, and a great, looming shape emerges from the sliver of shadow cast by the torchlight against one of the columns near the wall. Cloven hooves making nearly no sound on the stone floor, Varimathras easily steps up onto the dais in one smooth stride, as if ten feet were only one, and settles in beside the throne. It watches him with keen eyes, head cocking to one side in an eerily mortal fashion. “You are alone. Where is the wolf in a human’s skin?”

“Where is Sylvanas?” Tyri’el counters, unwilling to play the dreadlord’s games.

“Ah, but I asked you first.” It grins, sharp teeth gleaming. “Answer me, and I will answer you.”

“Violet isn’t with me,” Tyri’el replies through a set jaw. The demon’s felblaze eyes narrow just a hint as it towers over him, as if it’s reading something on the elf’s face.

“Did you set her free yourself, or did she chew through her bonds and flee of her own will, I wonder?”

“Where is Sylvanas?” Tyri’el’s hands clench at his sides.

The dreadlord chuckles, a deep, booming sound like a peal of thunder, its wings bobbing behind it as its shoulders shake. Tyri’el repeats his question for a third time.

“She is so like him, that child,” Varimathras says, ignoring his words. It flexes its long, black claws as if it’s imagining driving them deep into the flesh of something. “It will not serve her well.”

Already turning on his heel to leave the demon, Tyri’el exhales through his nose in frustration, only pausing his adamant departure when Varimathras speaks again.

“The banshee has gone to the surface, to kill the Scarlet zealots where they have wandered too close to her city. Seek her out at the tower to the west.”

Tyri’el continues out of the throne room, not even sparing a fleeting thanks to the demon, and he can feel its laugh reverberating in his chest even after he’s well out of its sight.

A short teleport spell brings him out of the city to the mouth of the western sewer entrance. Though it’s midday, the perpetual gloom of Tirisfal persists, and he can barely make out the once-white stone of a decrepit guard tower over the tops of the trees to the west. A bat screeches overhead as he walks through the forest, and off to one side, a wild plaguehound digs into the ground with both front paws. It pauses, watching him pass before returning to its hunt.

This forest had once been verdant and beautiful, enough so that his forebears had immortalized it in song and story when they landed on the its shores nearly seven thousand years ago. It took only months after the fall of Capital City for the plague of undeath to seep into the land itself, sickening the forests and twisting its wildlife into horrid versions of their former selves. Such has been the nature of the Scourge and its plague, something Tyri’el is duly reminded of as he comes into a clearing and finds the former Ranger-General of Silvermoon hard at work.

Sylvanas, too, had once been beautiful, arguably the most so of the three Windrunner sisters, and her sharp mind and sharper tongue had won her great respect amongst her Farstriders, and her people as a whole. She had been a fearless leader, up until the very moment Arthas stole her soul and ripped it from her body to raise her as his first banshee, and that same determined spirit won her and her Forsaken their freedom and their place in the world. Undeath has changed her, and now her beauty is that of a wilting rose, tragic and marked by her trials.

An arrow pierces clean through the heart of a charging Scarlet Crusader, rendering her still before her body hits the desiccated earth. Sylvanas lowers her bow a few inches, her keen ranger eyes scanning the impromptu battlefield. A host of bodies, clad in the white and crimson of their order, litter the space around the crumbling tower, and up at the top of the structure, a Dark Ranger sets fire to the Scarlet Crusade banner hung proudly there. Nathanos and his blighthounds search the fallen interloper’s bodies for anything of significance.

“You have returned quickly,” Sylvanas says, killing another Crusader with an expert shot before inclining her head slightly in Tyri’el’s direction. Nathanos looks over when his queen speaks, sparing only a passing glance at the newcomer before returning to his duties. “I recall ordering you to take time for yourself, boy.”

“My grief is shorter-lived than I expected, my lady.” Tyri’el approaches her, and she turns to face him, wordlessly appraising his grim face and hesitant steps.

“You are a poor liar,” she says simply, before calling out to one of her Dark Rangers. “Keep some alive. I want to question them before they die.”

The undead elf nods to her queen, settling for an arrow through a priest’s calf rather than his forehead, and begins to bind the crippled human’s hands behind his back. Sylvanas gestures towards the trees with a nod of her head, and Tyri’el follows her silently, turning his words over in his head as they walk. The queen stops once under the cover of a large spruce tree, and turns back to him.

“Why have you returned so soon, Tyri’el?” Behind her calculating gaze is the barest trace of concern, though it very well could be a trick of the poor forest lighting.

“I’ve come to deliver a message,” Tyri’el says, reaching into his vest to pull out a letter and hands it to her. She takes it, studying the seal, and her ruby eyes flick up to him for a moment before she breaks the wax and pulls out the parchment inside.

“An…interesting move on the Kirin Tor’s part,” she says, scanning the words he’d penned a few hours before, “but why is it that you are delivering this announcement to me? I would expect they have their own couriers for such tasks.”

“I brought this to you at the behest of Aethas Sunreaver,” he replies, choosing his words very carefully.

“Sunreaver? That redheaded boy who followed you around like a lynx cub wanting for a mother?”

Tyri’el fights the frown that wants to touch his lips.

“The same.”

“He’s treating with the humans now? I never thought him that great a fool.”

“This neutrality is necessary, Sylvanas.” Tyri’el meets her gaze, and one of her long eyebrows twitches slightly at his forwardness. “The Kirin Tor has accepted the Horde into its fold because alone, the Alliance cannot hope to stand against…”

He trails off, mouth going dry at the memory of the end of his meeting with the Council of Six. While their reports have been preliminary and sparse in details, the scouts they’ve sent to Northrend - those that have returned, that is - have brought back word of the Scourge’s movements and their sheer numbers. The Lich King’s forces stir at the roof of the world, and, closer to home, the Scourge’s great ziggurat bastion of Acherus has appeared over the Eastern Plaguelands once more.

“Against?” Sylvanas asks, resting one end of her longbow on the ground.

“Against Arthas,” he finishes, voice soft, as if saying the name too loudly will draw the long-reaching gaze of its owner.

Sylvanas’s grip on her bow tightens, the sound of clenching leather filling the silence of the forest. Her eyes are hard and far away, and her face darkens.

“So I am not the only one who has been made aware of his wakening, then.” She looks down at the hand holding the letter and curls it into a fist, rolling her fingers as she methodically unclenches them as if testing their strength. When she speaks again, her voice is strangely pensive. “I thought myself truly free of him, and yet…”

Sylvanas closes her eyes.

“I can still feel him, like a worm that has bored itself so deeply into the recesses of my soul that I can never be free of it.” Opening her eyes, she meets his cautious gaze with nothing short of murderous rage. “He is awake, and he is planning something.”

“Then you see that a place of peace and cooperation between the Horde and the Alliance is crucial if we are to thwart whatever he’s planning.” Tyri’el is almost pleading, hoping that he can appeal to their shared hatred of Arthas to assuage her to what else he has to tell her.

“Wrynn is in agreement with this?” Sylvanas raises an eyebrow.

“Word has only gone out a few hour’s past, but I believe even he will see the merit in this shift.” Tyri’el shakes his head, the weight of many years heavy on his shoulders. “I have no love for the Alliance, but we cannot stand against Arthas alone.”

“Perhaps you cannot, boy, but I am not so easily cowed. I will bring him down, with the very last strike left in my body if I must. He plans, but so do I.” The queen looks off into the trees, silent for a few moments before she turns her attention back to Tyri’el. “I am left wondering why you were in Dalaran, and why you carry post on behalf of the Sunreaver boy.”

Tyri’el sucks in a breath, mustering his courage.

“Because I’ve agreed to join his efforts with the Kirin Tor. I’m his right-hand for the foreseeable future.” He reaches into his vest for the second letter he carries, and hands it to her. “Effective immediately, I am resigning from the position of Royal Scribe.”

Sylvanas becomes a statue, her face unreadable as she peers up at him with unblinking eyes. It’s not quite anger on her face, and certainly not hurt, but rather, a strange mix of disbelief and indignation. After a moment, she looks down at the unbroken seal on the letter, the one bearing the crest of House Sunfury, and rips the envelope in two like she’s breaking the neck of a captured game bird.

“I do not accept your resignation,” she says flatly, tossing away the two halves of his letter. Tyri’el reaches down to retrieve them, straightening up and forcing himself to meet her eyes.

“The decision has already been made,” he replies, his voice uncharacteristically strong under the glaring strength of his convictions. They’re borne of fear, of desperation, but they remain iron-clad nonetheless, even in the face of the ire of the Banshee Queen herself.

“You are needed here, boy.”

“You’ve made it quite clear that you find me an acceptable Royal Scribe, at best, my lady.”

“Not as a scribe, you foolish child. As a Sunfury. A _Sunstrider_.” While her voice is raised now, Sylvanas still speaks with great control despite her sharp words.

“You have my uncle. I’m sure he can—”

“Remember your place.” She enunciates each word with the same precision she shows when firing an arrow. “Such insolence will not go unpunished. Pray I do not order your lover to take knife to your throat while you sleep beside her.”

Her words are as harsh as if she had simply backhanded him, but he recovers quickly. He knows Violet would never do such a thing…that is, he would have been sure until he found her with her betrothed. He had known that it was in her nature to favor secrets and subversion, but that blind trust is all but shattered and rotting at his feet now. Such profound betrayal brings down his carefully-erected wall, but the searing, raw hurt in his chest gives way to something else - a sense of smug satisfaction that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“You think this amusing, boy?” Sylvanas closes the distance between them to only a few inches.

“Only because such an order would fall on hopelessly deaf ears.”

“Do not presume to think she would disobey my orders because of her love for you. I own that girl, body and mind, and she will come at my beck and call—.”

“She’s gone.” He’d been planning a more eloquent reveal, but the two simple words prove more than enough to give the queen pause.

“What do you mean, she’s _gone_?”

“Exactly as I said, my lady.”

Tyri’el finds himself jerked roughly forward by the front of his vest.

“Where is she?” Sylvanas shakes him once, her teeth bared and her eyes blazing.

“I really can’t say.”

“Belore and every god in the Great Dark help me, if you aided in her escape—”

“She left against my wishes.” The blunt statement is a bold half-truth, but the pain in his voice is true enough. “I don’t know where she went.”

The queen does backhand him now, the hardened leather of her gauntlet striking him hard enough that colors flash before his eyes. He sinks to his knees, feeling the trickle of blood from his nose, but he doesn’t have time to think that he deserved so much more than that strike, because he finds himself lifted several feet off the ground by a coil of shadow and purplish smoke.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?” Sylvanas screams, her skin that same darkened purple as her form shifts and becomes more incorporeal. Tyri’el reaches to cover his ears, the shrillness of her voice as sharp as daggers, but his hands are held at his sides by her dark magic. “She is invaluable. Irreplaceable. She is _mine_.”

What few birds remain in Tirisfal, whether crows or carrion vultures, scatter from the trees for acres, spooked into frenzied flight by the wail of the banshee. Paralyzed as he is by pain and the soul-deep, primal fear her cry provokes, Tyri’el speaks with shuddered breaths.

“Kill me if you…must, but she is…free.”

He drops to the darkened earth, the wind knocked from him, and he’s left with a high-pitched ringing in his ears as the forest heaves and careens around him. Sylvanas solidifies before him, her eyes boring into him like hot coals, and hoists him from the ground by one shoulder hard enough that he thinks it might dislocate.

“Get out of my city,” she growls, shoving him roughly in the direction of the sewer entrance. “You have one hour to collect your possessions. Any longer and I will feed you to my abominations. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Tyri’el manages, and Sylvanas almost snarls at him as she retrieves her bow and stalks away towards Nathanos where he’s waiting with mild curiosity on his rotting face. She barks something to her champion and her Dark Rangers, but Tyri’el’s ears are still ringing and the words reach him too muffled to understand. With no small amount of effort, he teleports himself back to his quarters within the Undercity and collapses onto his bed. The thin layer of dust that accumulated in his absence chokes at his lungs, and he spends a few terrifying moments unable to breathe.

Once the coughing fit has passed and the room has stopped spinning, he set about hastily shoving anything important into the trunk at the foot of his bed. Most books are only reprints, but the few rare tomes he’s collected during his residence, including the ones he’s penned himself, join various arcane instruments and tools inside the trunk. There’s not much room inside, and he finally resigns to the fact that he will simply have to buy new clothes and inscription supplies once he’s better settled in Dalaran.

In the last drawer of his desk, underneath scraps of paper and unused quills, he finds the heavy brass magnifying glass Violet had given him to replace his reading disk. The cold metal against his palm is sobering, and he carefully wraps it in a soft cloth and stows it in the trunk before he can think too long on the day she’d gifted it to him. Remembering how she’d struck him the night before she’d presented him with it, he wipes at his nose and the trail of blood there, scowling at the smear of crimson left across the back of his hand.

He deserved Sylvanas’s punishment, he thinks bitterly, and sweeps his eyes around his bedroom for anything he might have missed. There’s not much to take with him from the main room of his flat, nor in the bathroom, and he latches his trunk and pulls tight the leather straps keeping it secured. Anything left behind will likely be burned, but he can’t find it in him to care.

With one last look around the place that has been his home for nearly four years, he uses the last of his energy to force open a portal that he shoves the trunk through and staggers after it. The portal closes behind him and he falls to his knees, reeling from the effects of Sylvanas’s rage and from the sudden exertion of teleporting all the way from the Undercity back to Dalaran. He grits his teeth against the dizziness overcoming him, but it proves futile, and he collapses against the floor, unconscious.


	5. Acquainted

Perched on the windowsill with her legs pulled close to her chest and her chin resting on her knees, Violet watches the harbor with sleep-starved eyes. Trade ships come and go, and as each departs, she imagines herself standing on its deck, leaving Stormwind behind forever. But as the tips of the masts disappear over the horizon, so too go her hopes of ever being free, of ever seeing the world again. She may as well be back in her cell within the Stockades, she thinks, chained like an animal.

Sleep has eluded her since she’d escaped the warning grasp of the king, and though her body is tired, she knows she won’t be able to rest anytime soon. Her other self is on edge, hackles raised at every moment in anticipation of a trap or ambush, and she can feel the beast circling around in her cage with the hope of breaking free and fleeing. She wants to give in to her - Light above, does she - but she knows she’d be dead by the king’s hands before she’d have a chance to reach the city gates.

Even if she could manage to escape, Violet knows leaving Dacian behind would shatter the last true piece of him left from before they’d been separated, and that thought hurts far too much to give any real weight to thoughts of fleeing. She’s loved him too deeply for too long to ever hurt him like that again. Guilt flares in her gut, for never seeking out proof that he’d died that day in Loch Modan, for leaving him to turn cold and hard when he had only ever been kind and forgiving. Her stomach roils and her chest clenches, conflicting emotions battling viciously within her.

Outwardly, she only sighs.

There’s a knock on the door to her quarters, and Violet ignores it, hoping whoever it is will think she’s still asleep this late into the morning, but it comes again, this time a bit more insistent. She unfurls her legs and jumps down from the windowsill, crossing the room with soft steps to open the door just a crack.

“Good morning, little moon,” Dacian says, eyes soft with a smile starting to tug at his lips. Violet opens the door a little more, leaning into him when he presses a kiss to her forehead. He holds her close to his chest, his arms desperately tight for just a moment before he steps back to look her over. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Violet says, keeping her eyes trained low for fear that he might see the exhaustion and despair in them.

“I’m told you spoke with the king last night,” he says, and Violet only nods. She should have known he’d have his men keep an eye on her, just as Sylvanas had her constantly watched by her army of banshees within the Undercity. Any pretense of freedom she might have had goes up in smoke, only adding to the weight in her chest. She realizes she’s still a prisoner, but Tyri’el isn’t here to see her through it - she’s alone, and she feels it in every fiber of her being.

Dacian bends to pick up a parcel resting beside the door and hands it to her. Violet turns it over in her hands, finding it light and soft to the touch.

“What’s this?” She asks, and Dacian smiles.

“A dress, from Madame Josette’s.”

“Blackbird,” Violet says, almost scolding him with her eyes wide. Her mind takes her back to those long-gone days when her life had been so simple, when their daily walks through the city had brought them into the Trade District and past the wide windows of the dress shop that catered to the daughters of nobles and wealthy merchants. She’d always swooned over the rich silks and fine embroidery, and Dacian promised her each time that someday, when they were married, he could buy her every single dress in the shop. And, like the foolish teenager she was, she’d giggled and prayed for the day she’d come of age so they could finally be wed.

“I keep my promises, little moon,” he murmurs, kissing her softly. “You’ll want for nothing.”

Having slept so little and endured so much in the past day, Violet feels herself close to tears at his words, and she puts her hand over her mouth to stifle the sob building in her chest. Dacian pulls her close, cradling her head against his chest. He’s warm and his scent is so familiar, but the embrace feels almost hollow to Violet, not at all like the near-desperate way Tyri’el would hold her, as if she was the only thing keeping him from simply fading from existence altogether. She longs for him, for the peace he brought to the chaos of her soul, but the ache the thought of him brings is too great, and she pushes away the last bits of fleeting hope and steels herself against them.

“Forgive me,” she says, swallowing hard against her tears, and tries her best to smile up at him.

“There’s nothing to be forgiven, little moon,” Dacian replies, smoothing a lock of hair away from her face as he touches the parcel clasped in her hands. “Go try this on, and I’ll take you to meet Highlord Fordragon.”

Nodding without a word, Violet slips back into her room, taking in a deep breath and closing her eyes with her back against the door. The parcel feels heavy in her hands, as if weighted down by the expectations Dacian has for her, and for their future. Part of her needs his steadfastness, needs something solid to hold onto in this raging storm inside her, but she also knows that he still thinks of her as that same naive girl he’d fallen in love with what feels to her like lifetimes ago. Much has happened since they’d parted, things that have changed her in ways that make her a complete stranger when compared to who she’d been barely three years ago. Then, she’d known nothing of poisons or picking locks, hadn’t known how to hide herself in plain sight or where to slip a blade to kill quickly and quietly. Would he even still love her if he learns what she’s capable of?

_Of course not._

Her other self whispers in her ear, gently probing for any trace of weakness in her jailer that would allow her to take control.

_He will find out eventually, girl, and cast you aside. If you flee now, he can never abandon you like the other did. If you only allow me to—_

Violet shakes her head and forces her other self away from the front of her mind, and moves into her room, tossing the parcel onto the bed. Running is not an option, no matter how desperately she wishes it was.

This is her home now, she tells herself.

This is her life.

Violet undresses quickly, sparing only a moment to check on the fading wounds left by her fight with Kael’thas, and, seeing that they’re nearly gone, she moves to the bed to unwrap the parcel there. The dress inside is indeed beautiful, the same deep, emerald green that she knows is her betrothed’s favorite color, and she slowly puts it on. It’s been ages since she’s worn a proper dress, so long that wearing this one starts to feel like she’s dressing up in a Hallow’s End costume, pretending to be something - and someone - she’s not.

Pursing her lips in a tired, thin line, Violet smooths at the fine fabric, moving to the tall mirror to look herself over. Her hair is a mess, and she tries to tame it with her fingers, all the while feeling more and more out of place. There’s a stranger staring back at her, a young woman who just a day ago, had known exactly who she was and where she was headed. Instead of that woman, she sees a tired, lost little girl playing dress-up in a fairy story. Her mother’s locket catches the midday light from the windows, almost glittering where it rests against her chest. Violet touches it, wishing she could ask her mother for guidance, and tamps down on the tears that threaten at the thought.

“You look…” Dacian begins when Violet exits her room, lost for words for a moment before he takes her hands in his. “You are so beautiful.”

He lifts her hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles, and Violet forces herself to smile.

“Come,” he says, pulling her along with enough boyish excitement that Violet catches just a glimpse of the man she’d left behind, not the one he seems to have become. Again, she fails to register the many twists and turns of the Keep’s corridors as they navigate the castle - she’d had to ask a guard to show her back to her room the night before because twenty minutes of wandering on her own proved futile - but the door they finally come to is familiar, at least. Dacian knocks shortly on the door to the king’s study, and the call to enter comes a moment later, but not before Violet’s sensitive ears pick up the sudden halting of an argument on the other side.

“Captain Goddard,” Varian says in greeting, his voice even, but the strain in his throat and the set of his jaw belies his calm tone. His eyes flick to Violet, brows drawing together just a hint before the look is gone and he nods to her. “Miss Devereaux.”

“Your majesty,” Violet replies, dropping into an out-of-practice curtsy. She turns slightly to acknowledge the man standing beside the king, dipping her chin in deference. “Highlord.”

“Good day,” Bolvar says, nodding to her. He studies her for a moment before speaking again. “We’ve met before, have we not?”

“Quite some time ago, sir. My adoptive father brought me before you and the king, and…Lady Prestor.”

The distaste is palpable in the paladin’s features at the mention of the broodmother’s alias, but it softens in the next moment, replaced with recognition and something that looks almost like pity.

“Violet is my betrothed, sir. I wanted to be sure you were acquainted as she’ll be living in the Keep from now on.” Dacian squeezes Violet’s hand and shoots her a nervous half-smile, one wholly unbecoming of the captain of the Royal Guard.

“Betrothed?” Bolvar asks, raising a dark eyebrow. “In that case, I believe congratulations are in order, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Captain, see to it that the representatives from Ironforge are shown to the meeting hall as soon as they arrive,” Varian says, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk.

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Dismissed,” the king says, nearly cutting off his captain of the guard. His voice holds the command of his post, and Dacian nods stiffly, hand over his heart in a salute before he leads Violet from the room.

“Will you be all right for a few hours, on your own?” Dacian asks once they’re out in the hall.

“I think I can manage,” Violet says, and Dacian puts his hands on her cheeks, cradling her face and leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“I’ll come find you this evening. We can bring our supper down to the beach like we used to, all right?”

Violet nods, wishing he wouldn’t leave her alone and to her own devices, but says nothing. With just a moment spent on a soft kiss, Dacian is gone, and Violet is left to try to make sense of the halls of the Keep once more. She manages to make it down to the second floor, but beyond that, she has no idea where she is or where she’s going, let alone how she’s going to spend the next six hours keeping herself busy. She pauses by a large window that overlooks the lake to the northwest of the Keep, watching the sunlight glint off the small waves on the water’s surface. Soft footsteps barely register until they’re very close, and Violet turns in time to see someone who looks like he’s trying very hard not to be seen by her.

“Highness?” Violet asks, and the prince freezes in his tracks, turning back from where he’d almost made it to the end of the hallway. His expression goes from guilty to surprised, and then to confused.

“Violet?” He asks, approaching her. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here now, I suppose,” she replies, somewhat amused at the teen’s abrupt change in demeanor. “Forgive me for asking, but who exactly are you hiding from?”

“I thought you were one of the nobles. I can’t do anything around them without word of it getting back to father.”

“And what exactly are you trying to do that you don’t want your father to find out about?”

A small frown touches Anduin’s lips, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not her intentions are genuine.

“I’m supposed to be studying, but I’ve already finished the reading for the rest of the week…” He sighs, shoulders sagging.

“So, you’re telling me that I just caught the prince of Stormwind trying to play hookey?” Violet bites her lip to stifle her smile at how positively guilty the prince looks.

“Please don’t tell father. I’m headed back to my quarters now.” He’s clearly trying to sound like he’s not begging, but the desperation is there, and Violet thinks back to the day before, to him telling her that his father now has a tendency to lose his temper very quickly. She’s seen it firsthand, and she resolves to spare the young prince any meeting with Lo’Gosh that she can manage.

“It’s really none of my business what the crown prince gets himself up to,” she says, folding her arms over her chest.

“You…won’t say anything to father, will you?”

“Not a word. But I have one condition.”

Anduin’s relief changes quickly to suspicion.

“And what’s that?”

“You show me how to get out of this bloody castle and down there.” Violet gestures to the window and to the lake below, and Anduin’s face lights up.

“Miss Violet,” he says, holding out his hand with an infectious grin, “you have yourself a deal.”

“Excellent,” Violet says, shaking his hand, and she and the prince start down the hallway. Over her shoulder, she catches sight of the prince’s bodyguard stealthed and nearly invisible a few yards behind them, but pretends she doesn’t see him.

“You said you live here now,” Anduin says as they descend a staircase to the first floor of the Keep. “Have you joined the Keep’s servant staff?”

“No, highness,” Violet says, a sinking in her gut. “I’m engaged to be married to the captain of the royal guard.”

“Captain Goddard?” The prince’s steps falter for a moment. “Ah, congratulations, I suppose. He’s a good man.”

“He is,” Violet replies, unable to keep a trace of a sigh from her voice. Anduin looks over at her, head inclining slightly to one side, but says nothing. Rounding yet another corner, they come to a large set of double doors flanked on either side by two royal guards, and beyond that is an open expanse of green hillside that leads down to the shimmering waters of the lake. Violet can’t help but grin as she speaks. “Light be praised, an exit.”

“The Keep can be confusing,” Anduin says, smiling himself. “I might get lost myself if I hadn’t grown up here.”

“Are you allowed outside unaccompanied?”

“Bayard is always with me.” The prince looks around, deep blue eyes roving over the spot his bodyguard is hiding without seeing him. “Somewhere.”

“I would think you’d be better at sneaking about with an SI:7 operative as your personal guard.”

They step out into the blinding late summer sun, and Anduin shakes his head.

“Master Shaw has forbidden Bayard from teaching me any roguish secrets. Apparently I’m enough of a handful as it is, without being able to turn invisible and pick locks.”

Violet snorts, and Anduin looks over at her with a lopsided grin. He’s already as tall as her, likely set to be as tall as his father, and already starting to look a great deal like Varian, if not a bit softer around the edges in his youth. She can’t help but feel a bit sad on his behalf, for having to stay cooped up in the Keep for all of his life, and now with a father so quick to anger. He seems in high enough spirits, but there’s a subtle sadness about the teen, one Violet can easily recognize in him because she knows it well in herself. She sends a quick prayer to the Light on his behalf.

A gentle breeze stirs small waves into the otherwise glassy surface of the lake as they approach, and the morning dew hasn’t yet evaporated in the shade of the trees they pass under, clinging greedily to the bottom hem of Violet’s dress. Passively, she worries about the moisture staining the fine fabric, but she’s mostly just annoyed - she can’t recall when she’d started seeing dresses as impractical for fighting, but that thought constantly nags her and she wishes she was wearing trousers again.

“What we spoke about yesterday,” Anduin says, clearly hesitant but curious nonetheless. “The man you said you fell in love with…you weren’t talking about Captain Goddard, were you?”

Violet looks over at him, seeing the same earnest expression he’d worn the day before. She weighs her options, but in the end, she’s far too tired to come up with a convincing lie or deflection.

“No,” she says softly, hand coming up to grasp her necklace.

“But you’re going to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“It must be hard for you.” The prince’s expression turns thoughtful, and as he stares out at the lake and the mountains beyond, he looks much older than just thirteen. “I’ve never been in love, but I would imagine it would be very hard to be separated from someone if I did love them as much as you seem to.”

“I pray you never have to find out, highness,” Violet says, biting the inside of her cheek. She turns her head, hoping he won’t see the beginnings of tears in her eyes, and through the haze of blinking away the moisture, a stealthed shape emerges in the verdant boughs of the tree not ten feet from them. It’s definitely humanoid, and as Violet wipes at her eyes as if she’s noticed nothing, it becomes clear to her that it’s it’s not a human perched in the cover of the leaves, but an elf. At first, she thinks it a high elf, which in and of it self is alarming, but the two points of fel-green light tell her it’s a blood elf, and she immediately shifts into defensive mode.

Her tears forgotten, Violet casually steps to the prince’s other side, putting herself between him and the hooded figure who is definitely watching them. A quick sweep of the space around them tells her Bayard is nowhere to be seen, and she has to fight to keep a snarl from her lips at the realization that the prince’s bodyguard must be complicit in the impending attack.

“Are you all right?” Anduin asks when she bends down to tug at the cuff of her boot. She slips the small knife there under the hem of her sleeve in a quick, fluid motion, and straightens up.

“Just a rock caught in my shoe,” she replies with a trained casualness that she isn’t sure where she learned. Warning bells are going off in her head, and her other self stirs in anticipation of a fight, but there’s a calm over her mind that seems out of place and as natural as breathing at the same time.

The hooded elf drops down from the tree, landing silently in a graceful crouch, and straightens up with eyes still trained on the prince, who seems blissfully unaware of the danger he’s in.

“Highness, why don’t you show me around the Keep?” Violet says, standing beside him in a way that allows her to shield most of his body with hers while still staying an appropriate distance away.

“I thought you wanted to see the lake?”

“Perhaps another day. For now, we should head back inside.”

“Why?” Anduin’s eyebrows draw together in question, and he frown when she lets out a short sigh.

“You’re in danger,” Violet says, voice barely above a whisper, and Anduin stiffens.

“Are you—”

“Look at me, highness.” Violet grips his arm to keep him from glancing around. “I won’t let them hurt you, but we need to get back the Keep.”

The elf takes a few tentative steps forward, looking to Violet like they’re hesitating. Something scratches at the back of her mind, telling her they aren’t acting very much like an assassin, but she moves with the prince as casually as she can manage.

“Get inside,” she says as soon as they’re within fifty yards of the doors they’d come out of. “Don’t look back.”

The prince nods, shoulders squared and surprisingly calm in the face of such an immediate threat. Violet turns, once again cursing the cumbersome fabric of her dress, and finds the stealthed figure where they’ve crept closer to the castle.

“I can see you,” she calls, eyes locked dead center on the figure, and the elf pauses, straightening up from their crouch. Judging by their stature, it’s a female blood elf, and the muted reds and golds of her clothing are just barely visible against the backdrop of grass all around her. “Whatever you’re here for, I won’t let you get far enough to find it.”

Still stealthed, the elf cocks her head to one side, seeming to appraise Violet where she stands, ready to draw the blade from her sleeve at a moment’s notice.

“A sin’dorei has no business in Stormwind,” she continues, stepping towards the elf, who says nothing as she, too, begins to close the distance between them. Violet tenses in anticipation, some part of her brain analyzing every movement the other rogue makes with near-clinical precision. The elf makes no move to brandish the twin daggers sheathed in the holsters fastened to her upper thighs, instead sauntering casually towards Violet until they’re just a few feet apart.

“Don’t I?” The elf says in clear Common, and her accent starts an ache deep in Violet’s chest. In the split second it takes Violet to force away the pain, the other rogue draws a hidden blade and thrusts it at her, the polished metal only kept from her neck by her own small knife, brought up at lightning speed from where it was concealed in the sleeve of her dress. Fel green eyes bore down on her, and Violet’s upper lip curls back in a silent snarl as she readies herself to fight.

“Come off it, Sanguinar,” someone says from behind them, and the pressure keeping the blade at Violet’s neck lessens a fraction. The elf looks over Violet’s shoulder, and from the way her gaze hardens, she’s likely frowning intently under the mask covering her nose and mouth.

“Killjoy,” she mutters with a heavy sigh, rolling her eyes and sheathing her dagger.

“We’ve talked about this,” Bayard says, coming into Violet’s peripheral vision with his arms crossing over his chest. His accent is familiar, and Violet tries to place it. She recalls hearing the nearly-Ginean lilt from sailors docking in the merchant marina in her hometown, and finally realizes that he must be Kul Tiran, something only further confirmed as he continues to speak. “Can’t go scaring the shite out of the common folk, remember?”

“I may recall,” the blood elf says, stepping back to look Violet up and down. “But she’s one of yours, isn’t she? You never said I couldn’t—”

“Valeera?”

The elf looks up and her face brightens, her eyes crinkling around the edges as she holds her arms open and accepts an eager hug from the prince.

“Belore’s wrath, little lion, you humans grow like weeds. You’re going to be taller than me come spring.” She pulls down her mask to reveal a beaming grin, and Violet blinks in confusion, looking between all of them as her heart still hammers in her chest.

“Is Broll with you?” Anduin asks, and the elf shakes her head.

“Not this time. The old bear had…” She puts her hands on either side of her head like antlers and wiggles her fingers. “Druid things to attend to.”

Anduin chuckles and looks to Violet, who still has her knife raised where it’d kept the other rogue’s blade away from her neck, and offers her an apologetic smile.

“Violet, this is Valeera Sanguinar. She’s a good friend of my father’s, and she’s _very sorry_ for causing such a scene.” He elbows Valeera gently in the ribs, and the elf lets out an annoyed huff.

“Terribly sorry,” she says, rolling her eyes again.

“Pleasure.” Violet sheathes the knife back in her sleeve, shooting Bayard a sideways glance. He’s eyeing her as well, and she turns fully to face him, her other self’s hackles raising at the edges of already frayed nerves. “What?”

“Mm, just sizing you up. Captain Goddard failed to mention he was marrying a trained rogue.” Bayard walks in a circle around her, hand on his chin in mock consternation, before grabbing her arm and forcing up the sleeve of her dress. All he finds is the bandages where her tattoo used to sit, and his frown turns genuine. “You and I are going to have a nice long talk later, yeah?”

“Go easy on her,” Valeera says, one arm slung over Anduin’s shoulders. “Anyone set to marry Captain Grump deserves some—”

“ _Valeera,_ ” Anduin says, elbowing her again and scrubbing his hand down his face. “Come on, I’ll take you to find father. Let him deal with you.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

The two of them move away and back towards the Keep, Anduin shooting an apologetic look over his shoulder at Violet as they depart.

“Do forgive the elf,” Bayard says, finally dropping Violet’s arm. “She’s older than the both of us combined, but still a child to her people, and Light, if she doesn’t act it.”

“Does she threaten random citizens often?” Violet asks, watching the elf’s retreating figure as she and the prince disappear into the Keep.

“Only if they threaten her first. Not too many folks are keen on a blood elf in their city.” Bayard turns to face her, keen green eyes boring into hers. “We don’t get many Ravens down this way, and certainly not those who’ve lost their wings.”

Violet meets his hard gaze evenly, even if she barely knows what he’s talking about.

“I’ll be watching you,” Bayard says, eyes hard as he glares down at her. “We all will.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Violet to stare after him and try to make sense of his words. A cloud passes over the sun, bathing the lake in muted shadow, and she can’t help but shiver.


	6. We Will Persevere

Something wakes Tyri’el from the dead sleep of mana exhaustion, a bone-deep sense of wrongness that leaves him feeling sick to his very core. It isn’t at all like the feeling left by burning through too much mana, and though the sensation is familiar, he can’t quite place it. Head spinning, he pushes himself from the floor and reaches up to touch gingerly at his nose. Dried blood covers his lips and chin - more than had been drawn by Sylvanas’s strike - and from the way his limbs are heavy and his skull throbs, it’s likely from overtaxing himself and his mana reserves. With no small amount of effort, he manages to drag himself across the floor and up onto his bed before passing out once more.

He doesn’t dream, instead floating in and out of consciousness with the same, fever-like sensation spreading to every inch of his body. Something is very wrong, he knows it instinctively, but he remains barely aware of himself as time passes without meaning. Strange, ghost-like impressions flit about in his mind’s eye, of a darkened room and a great hand reaching long towards a group of blurry figures, of fire and cruel laughter and then finally, a light as bright as the sun itself.

Tyri’el’s body jerks violently and he sits bolt upright, his tired body spurred into motion by an immense surge of power, the likes of which he’s never felt before. Thoughts now razor-sharp and his body thrumming with energy, he heaves in a deep breath and stops short, hand immediately coming to splay wide across is chest. There’s something there now and his chest feels full, complete almost.

No, he realizes, his _entire being_ feels complete.

That maddening hunger, that ever-present need for more always scratching at the back of his mind that has plagued him since he and his brethren had destroyed the Sunwell in their very last attempt to save their people from the poison left by Arthas, is gone. Like a jigsaw puzzle missing only one vital piece, a tapestry unraveled by the jarring removal of just one thread, he and his people have been incomplete and left forever scarred, but that hole in his being is filled now, and he unconsciously weeps at the feeling he doesn’t fully understand. For the first time in far too long, he feels whole, feels solid, like a wayward spirit now joined back to its body after wandering incorporeal for countless ages. His hands curl into fists before him in the darkness, and he feels his power - the rightful, ancient power of the quel’dorei - surging through his veins like fire and ice at once.

No longer dragged down by mana exhaustion - in fact, he feels as restored as if he’s just bathed in the Sunwell itself - he reaches up to clear away his tears with his fingertips, and they come away glittering not fel green, but…gold.

Tyri’el blinks once, then twice, certain this strange rush of restored power has somehow altered his perception, but as he wipes his tears on the bedsheets beneath him and holds his fingers to his eyes once more, he still sees golden light reflected against the fair skin of his hands. In the next moment, he’s out of bed and on his feet, rushing into the bathroom to find his reflection in the mirror over the wash basin. There, staring back at him, is a stranger in his skin, and he reaches out to touch the mirror to be sure it isn’t enchanted.

This is no illusion, he realizes, and his fingers find his eyes once again. They had been green this morning, he’s sure of it, but now they’re glowing with golden light, the same bright fire that paladins and priests call upon from the Light itself. Tyri’el finds himself weeping again, from confusion and relief and the simple fact that he can breathe again without the dry ache of an addict in perpetual withdrawal. Both hands grip at the porcelain at the edges of the wash basin, and he shakes, feeling in his soul that something has changed, and for the better.

Over the years, he’s made his peace with the fact that his eyes, once the vibrant shade of sky blue inherent to his mother’s bloodline, would forever bear the sickly green hue of the fel. That grim reminder would glow as bright in daylight as it did in darkness, marking him as a sin’dorei, as a once-proud elf who had fallen prey to his hunger, his primal need for mana. Even though he doesn’t understand exactly what’s changed him so, the sudden freedom from the hellish reminder of everything he’s done to sate his addiction is as liberating as casting off a heavy, sodden cloak from around his soul itself.

Frantic pounding comes from downstairs, and Tyri’el leaves the bathroom when he hears his name called from the first floor of the house. Hurried steps bring him down to the second floor, where Aethas stands in haphazardly-donned clothes, thoroughly disheveled with his chest heaving and eyes wide.

Eyes that are _gold_.

“You…and I…” He begins, gesturing at Tyri’el’s eyes and then his own. “Do you feel it, as well?”

“Yes,” Tyri’el says, equally as astounded as he grips his friend’s shoulders.

“It must…I can’t say how, but it has to be…” Aethas mirrors his hold, gripping the other elf’s shoulders tight with clear uncertainty.

“The Sunwell,” Tyri’el says, nearly breathless with every implication of his statement. It’s the only explanation he can grasp, ludicrous as it may seem. He’d destroyed the sacred font alongside his father and uncle, and still remembers vividly the soul-wrenching loss of power as their lifeline to the arcane had imploded and flickered out. He almost doesn’t remember what it feels like to be whole and unfettered by the hunger, but the piece of him that has always been keening in starvation is blessedly silent now.

Aethas’s hands are shaking, Tyri’el realizes, and the younger elf looks on the verge of tears as he speaks.

“We must go to Quel’Danas. We must know, and see it for ourselves.”

Between the two of them, Tyri’el and Aethas manage to focus enough power into one of the portal anchors being set up within Sunreaver Sanctuary to open a magical doorway to Dawnstar Village. Even though his nose starts to bleed again from exertion, Tyri’el is still awestruck at how easily the arcane energy comes to him, when it would have taken so much more effort only hours before. He flexes his fingers, feeling the power still thrumming there, and looks up to see Aethas doing the same.

“This is…this is how it used to be, isn’t it?” The younger elf asks him, tears in the corners of his eyes as he shakes his head. “I can’t remember how it felt before the hunger.”

“Neither can I,” Tyri’el replies softly, and turns his eyes to the portal. He can’t say why, but even the shimmering image of Quel’Danas feels different, even from this side of the portal and being thousands of miles away from the island itself. It’s only been a few days since he was last there, gathering his brethren and building pyres for them. The acrid smoke still stings at his nose, and he sees his father as he’d wrapped his body in a makeshift shroud and let the fires send him back to Belore.

“Belore guide us,” Aethas murmurs, seeming to hold his breath as he gives Tyri’el a wary look and steps through the portal. Tyri’el follows after a moment, stopping short on the other side as quickly as if he’d run into a brick wall. Power sings through his body, coming to him from the air and the ground beneath him, as if the island itself is a living, breathing being. When he’d been here last, the island had felt dead under his feet, just a pile of rock and sand like any other. As he takes a few barely-registered steps forward, he nearly trips over something in his path. Looking down, he sees Aethas on his hands and knees, shaking with quiet sobs as he looks to the southeast with eyes that seem to glow an even brighter gold. Tyri’el follows his line of sight, his knees going weak at what his own golden eyes behold.

Like a lance reaching up to pierce the heavens themselves, a spire of golden light reaches up from the sanctum housing the Sunwell, nearly blinding even against the light of the new-breaking dawn. Waves of energy roll off of it, pulsing across the verdant fields and reaching all the way to the sea where it laps at the island’s white-sanded shores. Tyri’el falls to his knees, brilliant gold filling every inch of his vision as it clouds with hot tears. Prayers fall from his lips, verses he’d learned in his youth and never had the faith to utter, and he goes from praising Belore in all his splendor to thanking every deity he can think of in every tongue he knows. Even the Light earns his gratitude, and in the blind haze of his elation, he reaches for Violet, to pull her close and tell her that if his people could be redeemed as they surely must be, then the Light has never truly forsaken her, either.

It’s only when he grasps at empty air that he remembers she’s gone.

Joy turns sharply to bitterness, and Tyri’el grits his teeth against the horrid clenching in his chest.

“Closer,” Aethas chokes out, still caught in waves of tears at the splendor before them. “We must…”

Nodding mutely, Tyri’el finds his footing and helps him to his feet, and they move farther into the newly-reclaimed village. Everyone they pass, be they Shattered Sun forces or adventurers, or even the few captured Dawnblade elves, are awestruck, all eyes turned towards the center of the island and the splendor there. Any sin’dorei amongst them are the most affected, all of them mirroring Tyri’el and Aethas’s initial reaction, whether they’re kneeling in reverence or collapsed in relief.

What strikes Tyri’el the most is the realization that many of the elves they pass now bear golden eyes, as well. He can’t make sense of any pattern or plain reasoning behind those who have changed and those whose eyes still glow with hungry green fire, but it starts something like hope deep within him, if only just a tiny, wavering spark. He does his best to keep it sheltered from the howling gale that consumes the rest of him in this moment.

The upper reaches of the Sun’s Reach Sanctum are crowded with onlookers, the balconies full of eager faces all turned towards the Sunwell Plateau. Hope is clear in everyone’s faces, lit up by the growing light of the new day, and many are embracing each other as awe turns into unadulterated joy. Cheering rises from those gathered, and grows into a deafening roar across the whole of the village. Tyri’el allows himself a small, exhausted smile at the sound heard so little amongst his people for what feels like centuries.

They’re _his_ people, he tells himself, and for once, the thought carries a budding sense of pride alongside the gut-wrenching nerves such musings always bring. He sees them rejoice, hears their triumphant cries, and for the briefest flash of a second, Tyri’el is overwhelmed with the thought that perhaps he could lead a people that are no longer slaves to their past. The notion is gone in the next second, and he buries any trace of recognition deep on the recesses of his mind as fear begins to creep over him once again.

He is still no king.

Searching the faces of the assembled forces as a distraction, Tyri’el catches sight of a familiar head of dark hair up along the balcony. Hathir pulls back from someone, breaking a deep kiss, and Tyri’el realizes with a small laugh that it’s Rhen leaning heavily on his oldest friend with a loving sort of grin. The priest is saying something to Hathir, gently stroking his cheek, and the two turn their eyes back to the Sunwell. Tyri’el is somehow unsurprised that Rhen’s eyes now glow with Light, but seeing Hathir with them as well only adds to his growing puzzlement. It’s then that Hathir looks down into the courtyard below and his face lights up. He says something to Rhen, and in the next moment, the two of them appear only feet from Tyri’el and Aethas.

“They did it,” Hathir says, embracing Tyri’el in a tight half-hug while still keeping Rhen upright. The priest’s chest wound is still visibly in bandages under his shirt, but at the very least, he’s standing up and grinning from ear to ear. Over Tyri’el’s shoulder, Hathir notices Aethas and inclines his head to one side before nodding at him in greeting. Aethas returns the gesture, still mostly distracted by the Sunwell, and Hathir’s eyes sweep the space around them before looking back to Tyri’el. “Where’s Violet?”

“I don’t know.” Tyri’el tears his eyes from the splendor on the horizon to briefly lock them with his friend’s, giving him a look that he hopes will tell him not to press the issue. Hathir seems to understand, but his lips purse into a determined line and he looks to Rhen. They converse quietly for a moment before Hathir helps the priest walk a short distance to a nearby tree so he can lean against it. Hathir returns to the others, grabbing Tyri’el by his bicep and dragging him away from the Sanctum.

“Hathir—” Tyri’el says, beginning to protest, but the other mage cuts him off.

“What happened?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s no anger in his voice, but rather a deep, knowing concern, and Tyri’el sighs, well aware that his friend knows him far too well to give him anything other than the plain truth.

“She’s gone,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the ground.

“At whose behest?”

Scuffing at the ground with the toe of his boot, Tyri’el remains silent. Hathir exhales through his nose, scrubbing his hand down his face.

“She loved you, Tyri’el.”

“I know.”

“And you loved her.”

Tyri’el barely nods, but it’s enough for Hathir to put his hands on his friend’s shoulders and pull him into a short, tight hug.

“You’ll tell me later?”

Another nod, and Tyri’el looks over at Rhen, who watches the two of them with poorly-hidden curiosity.

“You finally told him how you felt, I see.”

Hathir’s cheeks flush and he rubs at the back of his neck with a nervous little laugh.

“I thought he was dying, and as far as any of us knew, the Burning Legion was a few seconds away from a third invasion and we were standing at ground zero. It…puts things into perspective, to say the least.”

“I’m happy for you,” Tyri’el says, though there’s a vicious surge of envy clenching in his gut as he speaks. “It’s about time someone made an honest man out of you.”

The attempt at humor falls flat to his own ears, but Hathir chuckles.

“Nessa said something to that effect before she went in.”

“In?” Tyri’el looks over at him, then back towards the center of the island. “She was part of the strike force?”

“Lady Liadrin asked her personally,” Hathir replies, shrugging. “Apparently, it was a great honor to—”

“Has there been any news from within?” Tyri’el looks at him, a sudden flare of nerves overcoming him. “Any word from my uncle?”

“None.” Hathir shakes his head. “It’s been barely a half hour since…”

He waves his hands in the direction of the Sunwell.

“…whatever that is happened.”

“We have to go in.” Tyri’el starts back towards the others, Hathir following closely after him.

“The Farstriders have sealed off all entrances. No one can get into or out of the Plateau without Brightwing’s permission.”

“He’ll let me through.”

“Sparkles, wait!”

Hathir’s plea falls on deaf ears, and it’s only when Tyri’el is across the village and nearly to the dragonhawk keeper that he realizes he’s being followed.

“I’ll accompany you,” Aethas says, asking permission without really asking. Tyri’el nods, seeing in the now-Archmage the small boy he’d been when they’d first met. Shunned as a lowborn orphan by other students at the Royal Academy, Aethas had stuck close to Tyri’el throughout their decades together at the school, and had become a powerful and talented mage alongside him. Tyri’el feels a well of deep, fraternal pride to have seen him come so far from the shy, soft-spoken boy he had been, and now to have a place on the Council of Six. In return, Aethas offers a small smile.

The dragonhawk keeper is reluctant to lend them two of his mounts, but Tyri’el manages to convince him and they’re soon taking to the sky and rising above the village. The trip to the Plateau is unhindered, and once they dismount, all they have to do is follow the arrow-ridden corpses of demons to find the Ranger-General and his retinue guarding the front gate.

“Hail, Margrave,” Halduron calls, straightening up from tending to the wounds of one of his Farstriders. Dark felblood covers his armor and reaches up in dried smatterings across his neck and cheeks, and he looks haggard and drained, but he still maintains the regal, lynx-like poise of his station. His eyes still blaze green, and he seems to pause to inspect the mages as they approach. Something like a scowl overcomes him for just a moment at the sight of Aethas, but he still nods and utters a curt greeting. “Sunreaver.”

“Ranger-General,” Aethas replies just as shortly, and Tyri’el looks between them, sensing some underlying current of tension he can’t read.

“Twinrise.” Halduron calls, and a ranger materializes from up in the branches of a nearby tree. He hops down and stows his bow over his shoulder, saluting the Ranger-General with his hand over his heart. He’s incredibly young, Tyri’el notices, likely only a few years past his hundredth birthday, and he spares a moment wondering just how young the Farstriders have had to start taking new recruits. Halduron nods in Tyri’el’s direction. “Take Margrave Sunfury to the Shrine of the Eclipse.”

“Sir,” the ranger replies, gesturing for Tyri’el to follow him.

“I know the way,” Tyri’el says. “Aethas and I can make our way there without an escort.”

“As you like,” Halduron says, eyes flicking over to Aethas. “You may go, but Sunreaver may not.”

“Halduron, I—”

“I am acting on your uncle’s orders, Tyri’el. He made it quite clear to me that you, and you alone, would be allowed past these gates. No one else.”

Fists curling at his sides, Tyri’el fights the urge to sneer. He knows full well that his uncle had given that command with Violet in mind, and the thought stings unexpectedly. Aethas looks disappointed, but nods in understanding when Tyri’el shoots him an apologetic look.

“I’ll await your return from the village,” the younger mage says, glancing sidelong at Halduron before returning to his borrowed dragonhawk. Sighing through his nose, Tyri’el moves past the gathered Fastriders and enters the arch marking the front gate of the Sunwell Plateau.

The path he follows is familiar, into the first small courtyard edged with meticulously-kept hedgerows and gardens of fragrant, colorful flowers. Smoke carries on the otherwise clean breeze, and as he rounds the first corner into another long stretch of courtyard, Tyri’el’s steps falter. Blood Knights and priests tend what he immediately recognizes as funeral pyres, some of them praying and others merely watching with red-rimmed eyes. Bodies are laid out side by side all through the space, bloody and bearing the tabards of the Dawnblade and the Sunblade. Priests dutifully wash away the blood and grime from the corpses, administering final prayers and recording their names in ledgers before moving them with somber steps towards the pyres.

The mood in the air is that of relief, tainted as it is by grief and exhaustion. So many more lost today, when there were already so few. They fought and died for their prince - nay, for their king - and all because they thought it would lead their people to a better future.

Death, it once again seems, is the only future for the sin’dorei.

Tyri’el winds his way through the Plateau, walking the same pavestones he had each summer solstice since he could stand on his own. This had been a holy place, and although it now sings with pure, life-giving energy as it once did, it’s not the same place that had once marveled him well past his adolescent years. He imagines he must look much like Violet had when she’d seen for herself what had become of Capital City, wandering with misty eyes on streets that once bustled with life. The only difference, pale as the comparison may be, is that this place has been reclaimed, while the Undercity still lies in ruin as a reminder of betrayals long since past.

Much of the Plateau is still in ruins, though his father’s forces had obviously started meager repairs here and there. The Dead Scar still festers at the heart of the island, though as Tyri’el moves across an elevated walkway that spans the first half of the courtyard, he notices that it almost seems paler in color. The dessicated soil is not so dark, and he raises his eyes to the towering pillar of golden light reaching up from the center of the complex, wondering if it could have already started to heal the land despoiled by the march of the Scourge.

The corpses of demons, not yet removed or given the care that the bodies of their sin’dorei cohorts are shown, litter the inner sanctums of the Plateau, and Tyri’el picks his way carefully past them until he’s at the top of the ramp that he knows leads into the Shrine of the Eclipse. Here, the power of the reignited Sunwell is nearly unbearable, washing over him like a tidal wave that he doesn’t wish to fight. Trepidation wars with relief, and with confusion, and as he steps over the threshold into the Shrine itself, he feels the pulses of energy thrumming with his own heartbeat.

A triage ward of sorts has been set up within this upper level, and yet more healers from both the Horde and Alliance tend to the wounded. It’s heartening to see both factions working together with such ease, all of them focused on the recovery of the forces that claimed this victory with their blood and sweat. It gives Tyri’el a small amount of hope that the Kirin Tor’s gambit with neutrality will pay off, that they will be able to set aside their banners and come together to face the coming storm that brews at the roof of the world.

“Tyri’el?” A plate-clad healer straightens up from caring for a wounded comrade and takes a hesitant few steps before closing the gap between them. Aeonessa throws her arms around him, and though she’s covered in blood, he returns the embrace gladly.

“Belore’s mercy, you survived,” he says, a small bit of his worry alleviated at seeing her safe. Her eyes, too, are now golden, and as he looks over the gathered healers and sees the blood elves among them with their changed eyes, he feel a spike of panic when he doesn’t find a familiar face amongst the wounded. “Where is my uncle?”

“Down at the…with…Belore’s splendor, Tyri’el, you have to see it.” The paladin takes his hand and pulls him along, and they travel down the spiraling ramp and past collapsed piles of blacked metal reeking of fel and exhaust. The gauzy curtains hung over the archways around the font itself do nothing to dim the golden glow spilling out into the winding corridor, and he has to hold his hand up to shield his eyes as they near it. Tyri’el pauses, unsure if he can bear being inside that chamber again, after what he did and what his actions brought to bear. Aeonessa nudges him gently towards it, her eyes ringed with moisture that catches the light like tiny diamonds.

Gone is the darkened crater with brackish, lifeless water that he had left behind some six years ago, replaced now with a radiant font of pure Light. Where its energies had been the myriad of blues and purples of untainted arcane energy, the Sunwell now truly lives up to its name, awash in a magnificent pillar of shimmering golds and golden-whites. He can still sense the arcane within it, indicative of the font’s origins as a tiny vial of water from the Well of Eternity, stolen by Illidan and again by Dath’Remar Sunstrider before his people journeyed to found Quel’Thalas, but the unmistakable purity and warmth of the Light is there, as well.

Tyri’el nearly falls to his knees again, so overcome with wonderment, but Aeonessa’s gentle hold on him keeps him upright. Once his eyes adjust to the radiance of the Sunwell, he begins to pick out figures surrounding the wide basin. Liadrin is there, on her knees in reverence as prayers fall from her lips, and beside her stands a tall figure, a staff clutched in both hands as he gazes up at the pillar of Light with eyes that glow a subtle, pure white.

“The Prophet Velen,” Aeonessa says, and Tyri’el watches as the leader of the draenei places his hand on Liadrin’s shoulder and says something to her as she rises to her feet. Velen looks over in their direction, eyes meeting Tyri’el’s for a moment, and he offers a small smile that seems somehow knowing before looking back to the matriarch of the Blood Knights. Aeonessa speaks again, her voice quavering. “This is his doing. He purged the Void from M’uru’s heart and used it to reignite the…”

She trails off, her words choked by a half-sob, and Tyri’el puts his arm around her. Normally as stoic as her mentor, Aeonessa weeps into his shoulder, and though his own tears stay trapped around the rims of his eyes, Tyri’el feels the same relief as her. Through some miracle, the atrocity he’d committed has been righted, and his people are no longer slaves. They are free from themselves and their past, if only for this briefest of respites.

On the other side of the alighted space, the Regent Lord and Grand Magister are deep in hushed conversation with someone, and Tyri’el squints against the light to see that it’s his uncle. Dressed in the ornamental battle robes passed down to the leader of the Sunfury Army, Beleron stands tall and proud, as if centuries of weight are gone from his shoulders. Though he looks as if he hasn’t slept in weeks, there’s an air of calm about him that both comforts and unnerves Tyri’el as he offers Aeonessa a reassuring squeeze on her arm and makes his way over. Rommath is the first to notice his presence, and he says something to Lor’themar that’s lost under the melodic hum of the Sunwell that fills the chamber to the brim. The Regent Lord follows his gaze, as does his uncle, and relief washes tangibly over them when they see him.

“Uncle,” Tyri’el says, unable to think of something beyond that to say to him. The elder mage looks mostly unharmed, though a multitude of small cuts and scrapes cover his face and hands. He smells of ash and burned flesh as he embraces his nephew desperately, and Tyri’el takes great comfort in the fact that he’s alive and showing such emotion towards him. Hot tears, both his own and his uncle’s, stain his cheeks and neck as they cling to each other for the longest time, both of them speechless in their succor. Lor’themar and Rommath excuse themselves quietly, leaving the two of them alone against one wall.

“It is over,” Beleron says finally, pulling back. “We are saved.”

“This is your doing, uncle. You—”

“No,” Beleron says, shaking his head and looking at the others around the chamber. “It was them, all of them. Everyone here is to thank for our salvation.”

Beleron looks back to his nephew, and in the same moment, they both notice what’s changed about the other.

“Your eyes,” Tyri’el says.

“And yours.” Beleron smiles sadly, his hand on the younger elf’s cheek. “Would that your father was here to see this.”

“He’s…” Tyri’el starts, unable to finish his sentence.

“I know,” Beleron replies, face falling. “I found the pyre.”

“It seemed only right.” Tyri’el looks down and away, afraid his uncle will be angry with him for giving his father a sendoff befitting the last king of Quel’Thalas.

“He deserved nothing less.” Beleron searches his face, no doubt seeing his old friend in many ways in the elf before him. “He would be proud of you.”

Tears return to Tyri’el’s eyes and he grits his teeth against them. If only his father had lived a few more days. If only Violet hadn’t—

“I am proud of you, as well. You are…” Beleron seems to struggle to find words. “You are what it means to be a Sunstrider, Tyri’el. You must remember that.”

“I…” Something like an affirmation starts from Tyri’el’s lips, but he loses all courage and instead only nods, scrubbing almost angrily at his eyes. “We need to talk, uncle. Once this is all over.”

“What about?” The elder elf seems cautious now, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly as he waits for a reply.

“Circumstances have changed.”

“And the human?” The disdain is clear in Beleron’s voice, though his tone is controlled.

“You needn’t worry about Vi—” A sharp pain stops him from saying her name. “About her any longer. She and I have…”

Words once again abandon him, and he begins to walk away, to hide and endure this shame and self-loathing alone, but Beleron startles him by pulling him back into a deep, almost paternal hug. Such an unexpected reaction shocks the tears loose, and Tyri’el begins to weep, clinging to his uncle like the wanting child he always feels himself to be. To anyone else, it would look like he’s weeping in relief, but his chest aches fiercely, and his breathing comes in too ragged of gasps for Beleron to think him anything other than mourning.

“I am sorry,” Beleron says softly, once again shocking Tyri’el, and the younger elf looks up in confusion.

“You hate her,” he says, and his uncle sighs.

“No, it is…far more complex than that.” Beleron shakes his head as if he’s chasing away an unpleasant thought. “But you cared for her deeply. Whatever it is that drove you apart, I am sorry that it pains you so.”

Tyri’el nods numbly, looking at the Sunwell and those assembled around it.

“What happens now?” He asks, seeing the hope in everyone, be they sin’dorei or otherwise, Horde or Alliance.

“We begin to heal. Our kingdom…and ourselves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently gold eyes on belfs are canon, as in most turned gold when the Sunwell was restored, so of course I had to write that in after changing Tyri'el's in-game eyes to that.


	7. Half-Truth

Gale winds howl through the streets of Stormwind like the mourning cries of a dying wolf. Even as used to these storms as the citizens are, hardly anyone is out, save for the guards on patrol and the occasional adventurer rushing about. Certainly no one pays attention to a single figure making their way through the winding streets without a sound.

Violet pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders, tucking an errant strand of hair back beneath her hood as she slips from shadow to shadow in the night. She doesn’t need to favor stealth here, this she knows, but it comes naturally to her, as if disappearing and moving silently are simply part of who she is as much as the gold in her hair or the accented lilt in her voice. Regardless of how she chooses to move, she’s keenly aware that whoever has been following her from the outskirts of the Keep can see right through her stealth. They’re much too quiet to be a simple palace guard, making it clear to her that they’re some member of SI:7 sent to keep an eye on her, as Bayard had promised. Surely, she looks terribly suspicious, sneaking out well past midnight and winding her way through the city. While she would have preferred a longer walk, a trip through Old Town would have been far more incriminating - she’d been warned from the day she earned her freedom from the Stockades that a well-to-do young woman like herself would have no business amongst the thieves and con artists who make their homes in the only part of the city left standing after the First War.

And so, Violet crosses the bridge over the canals that leads away from the raucous taverns and smoking forges of the Dwarven District and moves into the decidedly quieter and tidier streets surrounding Cathedral Square. Even from the other side of the district, the steeples are visible over the rooftops, and she uses them as a guide on the once-familiar trek towards her destination. A child cries from within one of the houses nearby, softening to what Violet imagines might be the soothing reassurances of a doting mother. Her already tight-pressed lips turn down into a frown, and one of the hands clutching her cloak to her chest moves beneath the fabric to close around her locket.

The Cathedral of Light offers shelter from the wind, and Violet finds only quiet and darkness inside, the latter only broken by the candelabras along the walls and lining the pews in the grand chamber. Not even the night attendant is in sight, and she wonders absently who might have come here before her tonight in need of the solace and prayers of a priest of the Light. Whoever has been following her has at least enough reverence for the church to cease trailing her for now, and hers are the only quiet steps in the hallways and corridors as she makes her way into the convent connected to the cathedral. Unlike the Keep, she knows exactly where she’s going, and does not hesitate to knock on the door she knows very well. The door takes but a moment to open, and the scent of myrrh and gladiolus blossoms wash over Violet like a long-needed embrace.

“You are late, my dear,” Katherine says, expression calm but a smile in her voice. “I suppose I should have expected as much from you, hm?”

“Forgive me.” Violet dips her chin, already feeling like a child again in the presence of her former mentor.

“The tea is not yet cold. Come.” With a gesture of her head, the paladin welcomes Violet into her room, taking her cloak and hanging it by the door after she closes it. The space is small and spartan in furnishing, with little more than a bed and armoire against one wall and a sofa and writing desk against the other. A mannequin holds a gleaming set of armor, and Violet runs her fingertips over the polished steel, the same pang of envy hitting her as it has every time she sets eyes on the majestic plate mail. She could have worn this once - should have - but the Light no longer holds her worthy. On instinct, she reaches inside herself, to the place that she used to connect to the Light, to call it into her hands or draw it around her as a shield, and finds nothing but an empty darkness.

A gentle hand on her shoulder draws her attention, and Violet realizes tears have pooled in the corners of her eyes as she looks to Katherine. That loss, that sadness, is mirrored in the older woman’s dark eyes.

“Don’t say it,” Violet begins, shaking her head and pushing past her former mentor. “Please.”

“The Light is still with you,” Katherine says, following Violet and sitting beside her when she all but collapses onto the sofa. “But you didn’t come here to rekindle this old argument, did you?”

Shaking her head but saying nothing, Violet rests her head on Katherine’s shoulder, and in response, the paladin wraps her arms around her and pulls her close. Violet weeps into the soft fabric of her nightgown, hands fisted in it, like she has so many times before. These late-night visits are hallmark to the pair, having happened once or twice when Violet traveled to Lordaeron for the first time and missed her mother, and then nearly nightly following the massacre in Stratholme.

Whispering small reassurances as she rubs circles on the young woman’s back, Katherine holds Violet until the most violent of her sobs have subsided into smaller sniffles. Eventually, Violet falls silent, eyes stinging but held wide open in the candlelight of the small room.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, voice soft and almost childlike.

“And I, you,” Katherine replies, her cheek resting gently against the crown of Violet’s head. There’s an uncharacteristic waver in her voice, one that makes Violet draw back to look at her, and she’s startled to see that the older woman’s cheeks are wet, as well. She knows those tears have been shed because of her, and she bows her head in shame, unable to keep the paladin’s gaze.

“Please forgive me, Katherine. I didn’t mean to…to…”

“I swore to your mother, and to Uther, that I would keep you safe. Light rest and keep both their souls, but I have failed twice in that oath, and twice now you’ve come back to me, changed from the girl I thought I had lost.” There’s no malice in her voice, but it’s still a scolding to Violet, who again feels like a young girl caught breaking the rules laid down by her mentor. Katherine takes both of the younger woman’s hands in one of hers, using the other to lift her chin. Behind the pain is a small flash of a smile as Violet drags her eyes up to hers, but it’s gone as Katherine’s brows draw together. “Where have you been this time, child?”

Violet worries her lower lip between her teeth, shoulders sagging. Where to even begin?

“It was the wolf, wasn’t it?”

Violet nods, retracing the timeline in her mind as best she can. Huge spans of time are completely blank now, one memory clearly depicting spring and the next one covered in thick blankets of winter snow, and then with the swirling colors of autumn foliage. Thyani is there in all of them, teaching her Darnassian and sparring with her, but most of the memories are jumbled and nonsensical. The harder she tries to piece them together, the quicker the headache comes, until the pain is sharp and pointed enough that she has to hold her head in her hands and close her eyes to keep herself conscious. Katherine’s hands cover hers where they’re held to her forehead, and the soothing warmth of the Light fills her mind. She knows her former mentor well enough to know she’s checking her over for injury as well as soothing her pain, and it takes only seconds of expert inspection for Katherine’s hands to fall away and grip her shoulders gently. Violet looks up at her, seeing concern written plainly in her face.

“Who did this to you?” She asks, and the low hum of the Light becomes tangible in the air with the paladin’s budding anger.

“I can’t remember,” Violet admits, thinking back to the point where everything stopped making sense. She’d been in the Undercity with Tyri’el, and they’d parted ways, and then…nothing until she’d woken up in the clinic in Shattrath. Tyri’el had told her something, if only she could push past the pain even the slightest thought of him brings. She knows she has to try, and she steels herself and reaches back to that conversation. “It was…something called Ravenholdt.”

“This is shadow magic, child. A priest intimate with the whispers of the Void, not the ways of a rogue.” The older woman’s frown deepens, and she looks down at Violet. “What business did you have with the Assassin’s League?”

“I was…I think I was one of them.”

“Do you remember yourself, or did someone tell you that?”

“Someone told me,” Violet replies softly, starting to fold in on herself at the continued thoughts of Tyri’el.

“Do you trust them to tell you the truth?”

“I…I did.” Closing her eyes, Violet shakes her head. “Not anymore.”

“You, child, of all my students, would not have turned to a life of lies and thievery. I am certain of it.” Katherine puts her arms around the younger woman. “Tell me what you do remember, not what others have told you.”

“The gnolls…” Violet begins, forcing herself to dredge up the memories that had been all but buried and forgotten until a few days ago. “She made me run and I…I ended up in the Wetlands. A kaldorei found me and took me in, became like a sister and taught me to…”

The pain returns, and she massages her forehead as she fights to remember anything at all.

“We were in…Arathi…and trolls attacked us. They killed her and…I followed them. I…I killed them. All of them.”

“Out of thirst for revenge?” Katherine’s eyes are wide below a drawn brow.

“They had to pay for what they did to her.” Violet’s hands clench into fists as all the rage returns to her in perfect clarity. That memory, at least, has not been tampered with.

“That is not what you were taught. Rage without restraint is—”

“Is cruelty. I remember, Katherine.” Violet stands, and the beast insider her perks in attention within her cage. “I remember Uther’s lessons.”

She walks over to the suit of armor, glaring at her reflection where it’s cast in the polished metal.

“But I’m not a paladin anymore.” She lifts her hand to touch the armor again, but instead guides it up to her locket. “I paid for my blind hatred, Katherine. I paid dearly.”

Violet turns back to see her former mentor watching her with sadness in her eyes.

“How?” Katherine asks, voice unusually timid.

“You taught me to always be aware of my surroundings, to shield my weak side and strike with my strong arm, but I…I struck with both and allowed myself to be struck in return. I would have died that night had it not been for…” Taking in a deep breath, Violet forces herself to say his name, if only to show herself that she can utter it and not shatter herself from the core. “Had it not been for Tyri’el.”

Katherine says nothing, only patting the cushion beside her. Violet moves back and sits on the sofa, taking a moment to collect her thoughts.

“He was a blood elf, a mage.” When Katherine stays silent at that, Violet continues. “He brought me back to the Undercity and the Forsaken saved my life.”

“The city…” Katherine says, seemingly unable to speak beyond that.

“It’s not the city we remember. Below ground is…” She trails off, not sure how to even begin to describe the state of Capital City’s former underbelly. “And above ground is only ruins filled with angry ghosts.”

“Light, help their souls find peace.” Katherine closes her eyes for a moment. “Go on, child.”

“When I was well enough, I was brought into the service of the Banshee Queen.” Violet purposely omits the cruelty endured at the hands of the innkeeper, refusing to acknowledge most of it to herself.

“Is she as they say?”

“Sylvanas is…cruel and unforgiving. Whatever Ar—” She pauses, swallowing down the bubble of rage that rises within her at the thought. “Whatever he did to her…it took away whatever humanity she might have once possessed.”

“Did she harm you?” The Light pricks against Violet’s skin as the paladin unconsciously calls it to her in her anger.

“At first,” Violet says, rubbing at her cheek as she remembers how Sylvanas would grab her hard enough that her teeth would draw blood against the inside of her mouth. “But I gained her favor when I killed a spy sneaking into the city.”

Violet looks sidelong at Katherine, gauging her reaction as she speaks again.

“He was a member of the Scarlet Crusade.”

The paladin wrinkles her nose in a scowl.

“Zealots,” she says, shaking her head. “They pervert the Light’s teachings and profess themselves the only true agents of it.”

Violet suspected she might react as such, and it bolsters her courage for what she knows she has to say next.

“Sylvanas sent me to the Scarlet Monastery that night.”

Katherine’s scowl falters, and she shifts in what Violet can swear is discomfort.

“What for?”

“She sent me to slay the High Inquisitor.”

A long pause follows, during which Katherine leans back into the sofa and crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes faraway.

“And were you successful?”

“I was,” Violet says, watching as the older woman closes her eyes and takes in a slow breath through her nose. “But not before she tried to tell me how much I reminded her of my mother.”

The paladin’s eyes snap open, meeting Violet’s where they watch her evenly despite the nerves rising in her gut. For a moment, they simply stare at each other in silence, before Katherine stands from the sofa and moves away.

“The tea is getting cold,” she says by way of an explanation, her tone more flustered and uncertain than Violet can ever recall hearing it. Gone is the paragon of calm and control, instead replaced by a near-stranger whose hands shake as she works to strike a match to reignite the gnomish boiler plate beneath the tea kettle.

“You knew her, didn’t you?”

Another pause, this one shorter but still heavy with implication.

“She was not always the High Inquisitor. To me, she was only Sally.”

“Not her, Katherine.” Violet stands, making her way over to the other woman, whose hands now rest flat on the desk, her strawberry blonde hair falling over her shoulder to block her face from view. “You knew my mother, before I ever became your student.”

Taking in another deep breath, Katherine looks over her shoulder, fresh tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

“My dear, you—”

“I deserve to know. I—”

“She was my dearest friend.”

Violet pauses her argument, taken aback by both the statement and the utterly broken tone in which it’s delivered.

“You have every right to know,” Katherine continues, covering her face with both hands. “I should not have kept it from you this long, but…Ellie is gone and you’re more than old enough to learn the truth.”

It’s Violet’s turn to offer comfort now, and despite her confusion, she puts her arms around her former mentor in an admittedly weak show of support. She, herself, is trembling, but the embrace seems to comfort Katherine.

“What did Sally tell you?”

“That my mother was a priestess, who lived and studied at the Monastery. That they were practically family.”

Katherine nods to herself, taking the kettle from the boiler plate and pouring it into two cups with hands that still shake, though it’s lessened now.

“Had your mother ever told you she was from Lordaeron?”

“Never. I thought she and my aunt were born in Gilneas. It wasn’t until…until King Varian told me how he knew her that I had any reason to believe otherwise.”

The tea kettle clangs against the desk, nearly dropped outright, and the older woman turns fully to face her.

“The king spoke to you of her?”

“It seemed they were friends after a fashion, while he stayed in Capital City after the First War.”

“That…does make sense.” Katherine sighs, handing Violet a teacup. “Ellie could befriend anyone, princes or peasants.”

“Even Arthas?”

“Even him.”

Taking her own teacup, Katherine returns to the sofa, and Violet follows on weak legs. She hadn’t expected yet another person to tell her that her mother had been a friend to her murderer, and it sits in her chest with a hot, sick weight.

“She never told you anything about her life before she birthed you, did she?”

“Nothing,” Violet replies, remembering every change of subject, every deflected question. Even her aunt would never give a straight answer when she’d asked. Katherine takes a few moments to speak, seeming to draw on her courage.

“Eliana was born in Capital City, to the royal stablemaster and his wife. She was an orphan by eleven, when she went to live with your aunt and her new husband in Gilneas. A few years later, she came to live and study the Monastery. That’s where I met her.”

Violet blows on her tea, waiting for the older woman to speak again.

“I was older by a few years, so we were housed in separate parts of the convent, but we had a number of classes together.”

“And Whitemane?”

“Sally and she shared a room. They were fast friends.”

“She said as much,” Violet says, taking a sip of tea and savoring the taste on her tongue. “I never even knew the Light spoke to her.”

“Ellie was…incredibly gifted. The Light came to her as easily as breath into her lungs.” A small smile touches Katherine’s lips as she puts her cup to them. “I wasn’t at all surprised that it was much the same with you.”

The words sting like coals, and it must show in her face, because Katherine reaches out to touch her arm, squeezing gently. Violet shakes her head, trying her best to ignore the hollowness in her being that used to be filled by the Light.

“Ellie and Sally were near inseparable. I was always welcome with them, but…I could never compete with their friendship. Still, she was the closest friend I have ever had.”

“Was she close with anyone else?” Violet asks, eyes tracing the patterns on the rim of her teacup. “With any of the men studying there?”

“She befriended everyone but…never like that.”

“Then how did I come to be?” Violet blurts it out, frustration boiling over without provocation. “Whitemane said…she said I was conceived of sin.”

“Sally always took the Libram’s word past its meaning—”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“It…” Katherine wets her lips, seeming to battle with herself, settling her cup in both hands in her lap. “When she entered the Monastery, your mother took a vow, one that forbade her from ever laying with a man. A vow of purity.”

“Why?”

“To be closer to the Light. Such a vow isn’t required, and most forgo it, but such a sacrifice is seen as the ultimate form of devotion. To put no earthly thing above the Light.” She pauses, thumb tracing the rim of her cup. “It was no sacrifice for me. I have never been drawn to the pleasures of the flesh, but…for some it is a true test of their faith.”

“It was for her, it seems.”

“She never gave any sign of it. It was only when she came to me, already carrying you, that I ever dreamed she might break her vow.”

“Did she…even want me? If it meant admitting to such a grave sin?” The question occurs to Violet suddenly, and tears spring to her eyes at the idea of being at all unwanted. Her mother’s love for her had never wavered, not in her eyes, but she’s quickly becoming all too aware that the woman she knew was far different than who she truly had been.

“You were her greatest love,” Katherine says, setting aside her teacup to take both of Violet’s hands in hers. “From the moment she found that she carried you, she swore to protect you at all costs.”

“Then why did she lie to me?”

The paladin shifts, tracing her thumb over Violet’s knuckles.

“She lied to protect you, and herself.”

“From what? From the…the…” Struggling for words in her confusion and anger, Violet pulls her hands from Katherine’s grasp and rubs her cheeks with her hands. “Was she so ashamed of me?”

“The leadership in Lordaeron’s church at the time followed…older codes of conduct. Archbishop Faol sought to change them when he formed the Silver Hand, but the Matron of the Monastery was a pious old crone who lived and judged in only black and white. When Ellie could no longer hide that she was with child, she was given a choice.” Katherine sucks in a breath, meeting Violet’s eyes where she’s gone still beside her. “Drink a potion to empty her womb, or face punishment as a vow-breaker.”

Stunned silence is Violet’s only reply, and she reaches up with both hands to grasp desperately at her necklace. Katherine picks up her cup and takes a long drag of her tea, draining it dry, before continuing.

“She refused the Matron, and in return, they locked her away until a council could be assembled to decide her fate. No one was allowed in to see her but the Matron herself, and it was well into her sixth month before she was taken to Capital City for judgment.” The older woman rises and refills her cup, seeming to hesitate to speak again.

“Would they have executed her?” Violet asks, knowing the punishment for breaking vows from her very earliest memories after becoming Katherine’s student.

“Perhaps, but not until after you were born. You’d have been left at the orphanage with no name or story, nothing to tie you to your mother’s shame. I think they would have convinced themselves it was a kindness to you.”

“But that’s not what happened.”

“No,” Katherine replies, shaking her head as she settles back onto the sofa beside her former charge. “Ellie never made it before the council. Sometime in the night before the hearing, she disappeared. I’m told she was kept in a high tower with only one door, and when the guards went to fetch her come morning, she had simply vanished from her bed, never to be heard from again.”

Katherine looks over at her.

“That is, until Uther brought a little girl back with him from Gilneas and told me I had a new student to care for. I think I nearly fainted like a airy maiden when he told me whose daughter I was charged with.”

“Do you think he knew?” Violet asks quietly. Her chest aches at the thought of the slain paladin, at the memories of his unwavering patience and the rare times her disobedience would earn a wistful smile. “Who my father was?”

“I suspect he did,” Katherine replies with a small nod. “It was not my place to ask, much as I would have liked to have known. I might have asked Ellie someday, when we were both old and those days were long behind us.”

“She should have lived long enough to tell you. To tell me.” Tears come again, these of anger more than sorrow. “She deserved to grow old and die in peace, not to be slaughtered by that monster.”

Violet scrubs angrily at her eyes.

“She never should have come to the city that night. If she’d only stayed in Gilneas, she would still be alive.”

“Child,” Katherine begins, stilling Violet’s hands and brushing the tears from her cheeks. “Your mother came to Stratholme as the last act of her great love for you. She knew that your life was worth more than hers.”

“How could she have known? I’d been to Stratholme a half dozen times in my training, and of all those times, she chose the night before he…” Violet trails off, hands held up in desperation, when she sees the look on the older woman’s face. A kind of knowing guilt, one that both unnerves her and infuriates her further. “Katherine, how did my mother know Arthas was going to raze the city, with me in it?”

The paladin is silent, her eyes cast downward.

“I thought you said I deserved to know.” There’s the barest hint of a growl building in her voice, all of the grief and shock ebbing back into the familiar heat of anger in her chest. She’d come here for comfort, for reassurances, and has been given nothing but more questions and more weight to her shoulders, and now that the one burning answer she’s searched for since her mother was taken from her is just within her grasp, she feels every bit the snarling wolf she keeps so well-hidden. “Tell me.”

“The answer is not one you want, child.”

“I am not a child,” Violet shouts, leaping up from the sofa to tower over the other woman. She’s seething now, and whether it’s her or the beast inside her, she doesn’t know. Every emotion kept pent up inside for the past days comes to the surface, making her shake with anger and her eyes cloud with hot tears. “Tell me, damn you. Tell me why my mother had to die. Why you didn’t save her.”

“Calm yourself,” Katherine says with a great deal of controlled command in her voice. She stands as well, now herself a head taller than the shaking young woman in front of her, and some distant part of Violet’s brain tells her to stand down. “Do not give in to the beast, Violet. Your anger is—”

“My anger is all I have left!” Everything on the desk beside her clatters to the floor with one sweep of her arms. Violet feels her grip on reality slipping and fights desperately to calm herself. It’s as if letting the beast out of its cage so recently, and with such violent consequences, has loosened her iron-clad hold on it, and the lines in her mind between her own thoughts and the beast’s blur back and forth until she can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins. She fights blindly against the strong arms that seek to hold her in place, and the words spoken at first in soft tones and then in more urgent ones are far away and blurred. The coppery tang of blood fills her mouth despite her still-blunted teeth, and it’s her own fingernails, not the beast’s claws, that draw blood. A snarl escapes human lips, then comes a flash of blinding light and she knows no more.

Katherine hefts the slumped form of her former charge with both arms, blinking against the blood that drips into her eyes from the cut on her forehead. The Light used to render the young woman unconscious still lingers in the air as she sets Violet down on the bed and pulls the blankets up to cover her, pushing aside strands of golden hair to stroke her cheek with the back of her hand.

“Forgive me,” she says quietly, kneeling beside the bed. Her fingers find the necklace around the sleeping woman’s neck, and she turns the locket over and runs the pad of her thumb over the tiny violets carved into the front. “Your daughter has suffered so long, Eliana. I pray your final sacrifice is not in vain.”


	8. Autumn

Somewhere inside Sunreaver Sanctuary - likely from the livestock pens behind the Filthy Animal - a rooster crows, and Tyri’el glances up from his desk to see that it’s nearing dawn. He rubs at his eyes, another night’s sleep lost to his work, and rolls his shoulders to release the tension coiled in his muscles. His fingers are numb from weaving delicate enchantments, and the glass vial suspended in magic on the desk before him is still no closer to completion. Countless others sit shattered in the waste bin beside his desk, all of them too weak to contain the heat of Al’ar’s ashes as his father’s enchanted trinket box does, no matter how many times he tries to recreate the spell used. It’s frustrating, tedious work, but at the very least, it keeps his mind busy and free from wandering.

Combing his fingers through his hair and downing the last of his drink left from the night before, Tyri’el rises from his chair and extinguishes the series of magelights illuminating his study. He’s bone-tired, has been for the last few months since he formally joined the Kirin Tor, but the coming of the new day means more work to be done, more efforts mounted to combat the coming storm from the north. Every day, new reports reach his desk, of the Plaguelands stirring once again, of increased numbers of Scarlet Crusaders flocking to New Avalon under the looming shadow of Acherus, and each day, he reads them with a weight in his gut he hasn’t felt since word of the plague of undeath first reached the borders of Quel’Thalas. This time, no one can afford to underestimate the Scourge, especially if the rumors that Arthas has awakened are at all true.

His house is empty and quiet, the silence only broken by his slow, tired footfalls as he descends the stairs to the first floor. The kitchen table is still piled high with brightly-wrapped gifts, unopened in the week that’s passed since his birthday. He’d made up a last-minute excuse - _too much work to do, mother_ \- to go to Shattrath to celebrate with his family, instead spending it at his desk, nursing the bottle of Darkmoon Special Reserve that Hathir had gone all the way to Mulgore to procure as a gift. It hadn’t lasted long, no longer than any other alcohol lasts him these days, but it had taken the edge off of his loneliness until he’d simply slumped back in his chair and traded one kind of numb for another.

The kettle whistles on the stove and he pours himself a helping of strong earthroot tea, topping off the rest of the tall mug from one of the many bottles scattered about the counters. Upon drinking the barely-tea, he discovers that it’s some kind of peach-flavored liquor that clashes horribly with the spice of earthroot, but he drinks it anyway, at least thankful for the warmth on his tongue. Pushing open the back door, he steps out into the small backyard behind his house, breathing in the scent of autumn from the morning air. Dalaran is warm year-round through magical means, but the scent of fallen leaves is still strong on the wind, now unhampered with the barrier gone.

By most accounts, the transition to neutrality has gone well. There were some who protested allowing the Horde into the city, but few can argue with the significant uptick in trade, and measures have been put in place to ensure that no one - Alliance or Horde - causes any trouble that would upset the new order of things. The Council of Six seems pleased to have Aethas in their ranks, and now that a solid peace accord has been reached within the walls of their city, everyone can begin to focus all their efforts on the battles to come.

“Belor’aran, girl,” Tyri’el says, moving the few short paces to the small outbuilding against the back fence. A happy chirp escapes the snow-white hawkstrider housed there, and she leans her long neck over the stable door to nibble at the hem of her master’s shirtsleeve. Kael’thas’s prized mount had been found alive and unharmed by the Farstriders, languishing in the stables of Magister’s Terrace, and Lor’themar had insisted that Tyri’el take her back to Dalaran with him. He’d been reluctant at first, but the poor beast had looked so forlorn that he’d agreed in the end. Named Myral, the quel’dorei term meaning ‘shining white’ that was later mispronounced by early humans to describe mithril ore, the hawkstrider is of such rare coloring that she’s become somewhat of a marvel amongst the sin’dorei, and never fails to garner attention when Tyri’el manages to get her out to stretch her legs in the forest.

It’s been some time since they’ve last been out, and Tyri’el decides that now is as good a time as ever. Aethas is always telling him he takes his work far too seriously, so he thinks his friend would welcome him showing up to the Violet Citadel a little late, rather than being there all day and night as he sometimes is. Sparing a moment to fetch his cloak and staff from the house, he affixes Myral with her saddle, and the great bird knows what this means, chirping and stamping her feet in anticipation. Tyri’el laughs at her excitement, swinging himself up into the saddle a moment later and leading her out of her small stable and into the streets of Dalaran.

A brief flash of black catches his peripheral vision from one of the rooftops, and he ignores it, knowing by now that it’s only one of Sylvanas’s dark rangers. He sees them now and again, watching him from the shadows of the city as he goes about his daily life, and he almost pities them for how dull their assignment must be. No word has come from the Dark Lady herself, not since he’d resigned his position as her royal scribe, but he knows why she’s having him watched. She doesn’t trust him, that much is clear, and she must be terribly frustrated when her agents come back to her saying there’s been no sign that he’s had any contact with Violet whatsoever.

Somehow, he’s been able to clear his head of her almost completely. His mind is split in a hundred different places on a daily basis, what with running the Horde side of the city and receiving intel from every corner of the planet in regards to the Scourge and the Cult of the Damned, and it’s only in those rare few moments of lulled peace that his mind wanders towards golden hair and eyes the same green-blue as the south seas. It’s then that he wonders if she’s really back in Stormwind, still betrothed to that dark-haired young human, still as happy as she had been when they’d embraced those few months past. They could already be married, she could already be with child. They could already have everything he’s been denied.

It’s at that point that he finds the nearest bottle and downs it blindly, just as he does now with a small flask pulled from his cloak as he leads Myral outside the city gates. The shock of autumn air hits him like a slap across the cheek, and he shivers beneath his cloak as he draws form his inner font of power to inlay a warming spell into the cloth about his shoulders.

Most of the trees around Dalaran are evergreen and show no signs of the changing seasons, but every so often, they pass an oak or maple tree, its leaves bright red and orange in a way that reminds him of the golden and crimson leaves of the trees in Eversong. He’s been to Silvermoon a few times since the Sunwell was cleansed, mostly on diplomatic trips in Aethas’s stead. Lor’themar and Rommath seem more willing to deal with him on matters of business with the Kirin Tor than they do with Aethas, though he still sees disappointment in their eyes whenever he first emerges from the portals at the beginning of their meetings. The Regent Lord has asked him only once more to take his father’s place, after the Sunwell had been reclaimed and he became the last true heir to the throne, and he’d once again refused. Nothing further has been spoken on it since.

They follow the curve of Lordamere Lake to the south, heading closer to the border with Silverpine Forest, and again, Tyri’el catches sight of a flash of color amongst the browns and greens of the forest. Instead of black, he catches red from the corner of his eye, and he pulls on the reins to halt Myral under the shade of a great spruce tree. The hawkstrider almost grumbles, but stands still as she was trained to do, and the only sounds in the forest around them are the soft rustle of the wind though pine needles and the faraway cry of an eagle.

“I have nothing to say to the Dark Lady,” he says to the air around him, finding no sign of his tracker. “You can tell her that having me followed will yield nothing of use to her.”

Silence, followed by a small snort. A lithe figure drops from the branches above him, startling Myral so badly so that she jerks backwards and bucks her master to the ground. Tyri’el lands flat on his back, the contours of his staff digging into his flesh beneath him, and he sputters and scrambles to sit upright. Looking down at him, rather unimpressed, is one of his own people. She’s dressed in red and gold leather, her light hair peeking out from under a hood that throws shadows over her glowing green eyes. What strikes Tyri’el most about her is her age - she can’t be more than perhaps fifty, but carries herself like she’s centuries older despite her youth.

“You’re not what I pictured,” she says, one long eyebrow piqued.

“What exactly were you expecting?” Tyri’el asks, eyeing the daggers strapped to her thighs. He moves to stand, and she makes no effort to stop him, making him think she’s not here to harm him.

“Not this.” She gestures at him, then turns her attention to Myral, who mouths at the hood of Tyri’el’s cloak with the tip of her beak. “Pretty bird, though.”

“Who are you?” Tyri’el brushes the dirt and clinging pine needles from his clothes, looking her over as he does. There’s no insignia anywhere on her, nothing to give him any clue as to why she’s here or on what business.

“Never you mind that,” the elf replies, a hint of mischief twinkling in her eyes. She reaches into the folds of her cloak and produces an envelope. “I was asked to bring you this.”

Tyri’el takes the envelope hesitantly, finding no trace of magic within, and turns it over in his hand. No writing graces the outside, and the deep blue wax holding it closed bears no seal.

“By whom?”

“A friend of mine.”

“And they would be?”

“You know her. Or, you did.”

Tyri’el looks down at the envelope again. A sinking in his chest tells him it’s from Violet, but he doesn’t want to believe it. Why contact him now, after so many months? Surely she would have done it sooner had she anything of substance to say. He looks up, meaning to ask the other elf for an explanation, but he finds that he’s alone again, with no trace of the mysterious messenger. Even Myral seems confused, looking around and tilting her head from side to side as she blinks her wide, yellow eyes. Tyri’el lets out a short sigh, running his fingers through his hair, loosing a few last pine needles as he does. His flask is already empty, and the envelope crinkles slightly under the pressure from his tightening grip before he opens one of the bags attached to Myral’s saddle and stuffs it down to the bottom.

On the ride back to Dalaran, he can almost forget it’s there.

—

“Watch my feet.” Violet exaggerates her motions, the way she subtly shifts her weight from side to side, walking only on the pads of her feet, and makes no sound as she moves. “Now try again.”

The prince furrows his brow in concentration, holding his arms out from his sides almost comically to even out his balance as he tries to mimic the young woman. The heavy steel greaves, already a size too big for his feet, clink against the stone floor of the room, part of the plate along his calf catching on the other and ultimately tripping him. Violet keeps him upright with a firm hold on his arm, but the metal still makes an awful racket, one that has them scrambling back to the desk just as the door opens.

“Are you all right, your highness?” The guard asks, eyeing the two of them where they’re standing nonchalantly behind a desk filled with books and papers. “That noise came again.”

“I’m fine, Sutton. Thank you for checking.”

The guard pauses, likely squinting at them beneath her helm, and nods before stepping out and shutting the door.

“They’re going to tell father if we keep this up.” Anduin sighs, frowning a bit as he relaxes against the desk.

“We can stop anytime you’d like,” Violet says, shrugging. “It was you who told me—”

“I’m not saying I want to stop,” he replies, squaring his shoulders. It’s times like these, when he asserts himself, that Violet sees the young man’s father in him. The set of his jaw, the way his normally soft eyes take on a sharp sheen. “I’m only saying that I need to get better at it, and fast.”

“That’s the spirit. I’ll make a proper scoundrel of you, yet.” Violet says, breaking into a grin that Anduin readily returns.

“I don’t see why I have to wear these,” he says, looking down at the pilfered guard boots he’s wearing. “Rogues don’t even wear plate. It’s too loud.”

“That’s the point.” Violet kicks the metal on his shin with the toe of her boot. “If you can learn to move silently wearing tin cans on your feet, you can learn to sneak past a Gilnean mastiff in broad daylight.”

“Have you even done that?”

“Mm, it was a bit cloudy,” she replies, earning a small laugh from the prince. Sitting on the edge of the desk, she picks up one of the books and thumbs through it. “I suppose you and I should actually be studying one of these days, yeah? Your father will only let me in here until you finish up with your lessons on Lordaeron and Gilneas.”

“I finished the module two weeks ago,” Anduin says, scuffing the metal toe of his boot against the floor with his eyes cast downward and his cheeks tinged with pink.

“Then why am I still here?” Violet crosses her arms over her chest, eyebrows raised, and watches the prince shift under her gaze. He’s been doing this lately, stammering when he’s normally quite articulate, and fidgeting when he usually holds himself with eased poise. Only towards her, she’s noticed, and she can’t help but wonder at the reasoning.

“I enjoy spending time with you. That is…” The young man trails off, cheeks going darker by the second. “You’re my only friend, Vi. I don’t have anyone near my age to…that is…I…”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” she says, elbowing him gently and shooting him a kind smile. He seems to relax a bit, returning her smile - albeit somewhat nervously. “I’ll stay as long as we can keep your father thinking I’m helping you with your northern history and not teaching you how to slip your guards. Deal?”

“Deal.” Anduin gives her a genuine grin and holds out his hand. She shakes it, pushing off from the desk and moving a few paces away before turning to face him.

“Now, let’s try this again.”

A short knock on the door interrupts the prince’s next attempt, and the young man lets out a sigh through his nose, pushes his bangs out of his face, and calls for them to enter. Dacian steps in, giving Violet a small smile and dipping his chin towards the prince.

“Forgive me, your highness, but I’m afraid I’ve the need to steal Violet away from you for the afternoon.”

“Of course, Captain,” Anduin says, nodding, and Violet notes the slight downturn of his lips amid his otherwise calm expression. “We were just about done for the day, wouldn’t you say, Miss Devereaux?”

“You’re a quick learner, highness, and a star pupil.” Violet makes a show of straightening the books and papers on the desk - barely touched over the course of the last few weeks - and bows slightly at the waist. “Until tomorrow.”

She winks at him conspiratorially while her back is turned to Dacian, and his ears redden at the tips. He offers a nod, and Violet leaves the room with Dacian just behind her. They’re around the corner and down another hallway before he slips his arm around her waist and pulls her in for a brief kiss, taking her hand in his as they resume walking.

“The prince seems quite fascinated by his lessons of late,” Dacian says, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

“I’m not sure what the king thinks I can teach him,” Violet replies, chewing on her lower lip. “I’m not nearly learned enough to be tutoring the crown prince.”

“You could be lecturing him about washing behind his ears and he’d be rapt with attention.”

Violet snorts, glancing up at him to see that he looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“What?” She asks, and he shakes his head, a smile finally breaking across his face. Violet stops in front of him, fingernail clinking on his armor as she pokes him square in the chest. “Every time I say a word about Prince Anduin, you get that look on you face. What’s so damn funny?”

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

A rare near-laugh rumbles from his chest, and he brushes a strand from Violet’s face and tucks it behind her ear.

“Blackbird…” Violet warns, narrowing her eyes and glaring up at him. Dacian glances around, and, seeing that they’re alone in the hallway, speaks through a lopsided smile.

“I think the prince fancies you.”

Violet sighs, closing her eyes and hanging her head.

“I was afraid of that.”

“Can you blame him?” Dacian asks, lifting her chin to make her look at him. His eyes drift down to her lips. “How can any man set eyes on you and not want to…”

His words fall away and she finds herself backed against the wall, lips locked with his for a heated moment that ends almost too swiftly. She can taste his morning cup of Blackrock coffee on her own lips as he pulls away, stroking her cheek with his thumb. In the few months she’s been back in his life, he’s seemed to soften from the hard, distant man he’d been when they’d reunited in Dalaran, but his moments of tenderness are still too rare for her taste. He’s older now, more mature - certainly they both are - but she often longs for the young man she’d fallen in love with those many years ago, still new to love and as foolishly optimistic as she had been.

“Don’t suppose your mother would mind if we’re just a wee bit late in meeting her, would she?” She asks, catching his lower lip between her teeth and winding her fingers into the fine hairs at the base of his skull. Despite the scrape of his stubble against her jaw and the rigid outline of his armor where his chest presses against hers, she can almost pretend he’s someone else, someone fairer and softer and…

No, she tells herself, pulling Dacian closer and grounding herself in the scent that is distinctly him. _He’s_ here with her, telling her that he loves her each morning when they meet and each night when they part, _he’s_ the one whose quarters she sneaks into when she can’t stand to be all alone in her room. He’s the man she’ll marry come spring.

Still, her mind often wanders to Tyri’el, to the warmth of his skin and the smile he’d always saved just for her. She wonders if he’s happy in Dalaran, or if he had even stayed there past their parting. Perhaps he’s found himself a proper elven mate, one of high breeding, who can give him everything she never could.

Her heart clenches in her chest, and she pulls back, breaking from Dacian and leaving him breathless.

“You know she’ll mind, little moon,” he says, disappointment clear in his voice behind the the low gruffness of desire. Violet sighs, the heat in her belly already gone, and nods in defeat. Dacian smiles, lifting her hand to his lips to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Let me change from my uniform and we’ll make our way to the portals.”

He leaves her alone in the hallway, and she makes her way over towards one of the windows to lean her elbows on the sill. The city stretches out before her, and she lets her mind wander until the smallest of sounds catches her attention. She barely looks sideways, already keenly aware of who it is from their scent and the lithe cadence of their footsteps.

“Did you find him?”

“I did,” Valeera says, coming to stand beside Violet with her back to the window, arms crossed over her chest as she leans back against the sill.

“And?”

“He took your message, no protest.” The blood elf looks down at Violet, watching the human turn her locket over between her thumb and forefinger. “He looked…sad.”

Violet dips her chin, hoping her hair will hide the tears already threatening to overflow.

“Thank you, Valeera.”

“You’re welcome.”

The other rogue is gone as quickly as she’d come, leaving Violet alone in the hallway once more. Dacian returns a few minutes later, dressed now in casual clothing rather than his guard attire, and by then she’s shed her tears and cleaned herself up so she looks the same as he’d left her.

“I apologize in advance,” he says, taking her hand as they make their way down to the lower levels of the Keep. “You know how mother loves to plan parties.”

“I remember,” Violet says, recalling quite clearly the fuss Marian had made over planning the wedding ceremony they never made it to, and dreading the thought that she’ll have to endure it once again.

“This time it will happen, Vi.” Dacian stops mid-step, pulling her close. “Nothing on Azeroth will take you away from me again, I swear it to you.”

Violet swallows hard. It’s not the first time such a grandiose pledge has been made to her, and she can only smile at him and beg the Light that he’s right.

—

“It has pressure plates here and here, one for speed and the other for altitude, and you just…you’re not even listening to me anymore, are you?”

Tyri’el blinks, eyes coming back into focus, and sees that Hathir has his arms crossed over his chest and an uncharacteristic frown on his lips.

“Pressure plates…altitude…” He fumbles for words, pretending he’s heard more than one out of every dozen words the other mage has said in the last ten minutes, but Hathir just shakes his head.

“No, no, I can share my brilliant invention with you some other time,” he says, fiddling with a tiny switch on the underside of a hovering disc, catching the enchanted contraption as it turns off and ceases to float. Hathir returns his device to the cluttered workbench a few feet away and faces his friend again. “You were thinking about her, weren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Tyri’el asks, not even trying to make excuses as his shoulders sag. He runs a hand through his hair, working out nay small knots still left from his stroll through the forest earlier in the day.

“The flask is telling,” the other elf says, nodding to the empty container clutched in Tyri’el’s fist. “Another dream?”

“No.” Tyri’el shakes his head. “She sent me a message.”

“What’d it say?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Hathir grunts, or perhaps he’s trying to hold in a terse sigh, and approaches his friend. One hand rests on Tyri’el’s shoulder and the other eases the flask from his iron grip, setting it on a side table. Tyri’el doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the worry in Hathir’s eyes - a look he’s grown used to pretending he doesn’t notice - but the other mage cranes his neck until they’re eye to eye.

“I want you to come talk to Rhen about this.”

“I’m perfectly well,” Tyri’el replies. “I don’t need a healer.”

“No, but you need a priest. He’s trained to help people deal with grief.”

Tyri’el snorts, trying to twist out of Hathir’s grasp, but he finds himself firmly rooted in place.

“Listen to me for once. You’re letting this eat you alive.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you are absolutely not.” Hathir grips both of his shoulders now, and shakes him. “You’re drinking more than you’re eating or sleeping. You look like…”

A short sigh escapes the raven-haired elf, and he looks Tyri’el over with sadness behind his golden eyes.

“You look like you did when Ralen died.”

The implication - no, the accusation - makes Tyri’el feel sick in the pit of his stomach, but the rage is quicker to act, and he shoves his friend away. Sidestepping to take his flask and stow it in his coat pocket, he makes for the door of Hathir’s workshop, only to be held back by a strong grip on his bicep.

“Please. He can help you.” Hathir’s voice is soft, worried, and it only stokes the fire burning in his chest.

“Can he?” Tyri’el whirls around to face his friend. “Can he travel through time? Go back and warn me not to take that path through Hillsbrad? Make it so I never cross paths with her? So I never have to know what it’s like to have her and then lose her?”

Hathir says nothing, eyes wide with fear, and Tyri’el realizes he’s grabbed his friend by the front of his robes and yanked him off balance. He immediately loosens his grasp and pulls his hands away, the color draining from his face as the blind rage subsides.

“No, I suppose he can’t,” Hathir says quietly, eyes cast downward. “But I’m worried for you. We both are.”

Tyri’el searches for something to say, a way to apologize, but nothing comes to him save for the burning shame that colors his cheeks.

“Don’t be,” he says, avoiding looking at Hathir as he flees the outbuilding. He encounters Rhen as he comes out the back door of the house he and Hathir share, mumbling a passing greeting as he pushes past him and moves back into Sunreaver Sanctuary. He knows his friend is right, that he’s slipping and taking poor care of himself, but he can’t find it in him to care. There’s too much work to be done, too many battles to come, and his own unraveling sanity is a small price to pay in the midst of it. Even if it means he sometimes can’t breathe, or that the ache deep inside him is so great that he drowns it just to find a moment’s peace, however hastily bought.

No, his own troubles are nothing.


	9. Winter

“That brings the count to fourteen.” Rhonin runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes and setting down the missive. He looks to be in some kind of pain for a moment before he opens his eyes and looks at the others around the table. “Good men and women, mages of both Horde and Alliance loyalties. All of them lost in the snows of Northrend.”

“More have been reported missing from the city, though none of those were sent officially as part of the scouting group, nor the recovery team.” Khadgar, looking more aged than normal, throws a piece of parchment scribbled with a list of names onto the pile of documents at the center of the table.

“Grand Magister Rommath has reported a half dozen of the mages in his service have disappeared from Silvermoon, as well.” Another document, penned in meticulous script and bearing the seal of the magisterium of Silvermoon joins the pile, added by a very sleep-deprived Aethas.

“Two of mine from Theramore alone, and several more from Stormwind according to High King Wrynn.” A human, somewhere in the middle of her third decade of life, sits to one side of the table, placing her own pieces of parchment onto the pile. She leans back in her chair, brushing a strand of golden hair from her face, and turns sad eyes on the rest of the group. “I fear we’ll lose more if we don’t find what’s drawing them away.”

“Agreed,” Rhonin says with a tired nod. “We are glad of your presence during such uncertain times, Lady Proudmoore.”

“Dalaran was my home for many years, and I still consider the Kirin Tor to be my family.” Jaina dips her chin, eyes turning wistful for a moment before the look is replaced with determination. “You have Theramore’s full support in whatever way you may need, Archmage.”

“The Silver Covenant stands with you, as well.” A silver-haired high elf nods at the leader of the Council of Six from her position at the table, and he nods at her in return.

Tyri’el, having felt dreadfully out of place for the entirety of this meeting, stifles a yawn behind his hand. Another sleepless night followed by a long day of paper-pushing has left him listless, and this meeting has taken away any chance that he might have had to return home for the evening to hide himself away from the world. He has no reason to be here, he thinks, not when he hadn’t even noticed the absence of fellow mages, and has no idea where they might be. It’s certainly concerning, but what he can do to find them - or to stem the tide of disappearances - he doesn’t know.

“What are your thoughts on this, Margrave?”

Tyri’el blinks, coming out of his thoughts to find the group looking at him expectantly. It’s Jaina who’d spoken, and he looks at her somewhat nonplussed for a moment. They’ve met before, years ago when she was nothing more than a fresh-faced young apprentice, sharing superficial pleasantries and nothing more, but her gaze - coming from a woman now older and world-wiser - is almost concerned rather than simply curious. She reminds him briefly of Violet in more ways than one, and he mentally forces away the murmurs that start in the darkened corners of his mind, whispering at him in his father’s voice.

“I’m not sure what to make of it, to be quite honest, Lady Proudmoore,” he admits, not letting his gaze linger on her for too long. “But it can’t be coincidence that Azeroth’s ley lines have begun re-routing themselves to Northrend, nor that the mages we’ve sent to investigate them have gone missing. Whether it’s Arthas’s doing or some other force at work, I can’t say. We need more information.”

Jaina, schooled in composure since birth, barely conceals her flinch at the mention of the Lich King’s host. There’s a hint of pity beneath Tyri’el’s rage, for loves lost and futures stolen, but it’s gone soon enough as Rhonin speaks.

“I agree. The pressing question is, can we in all good conscience risk sending more of our people into the unknown on the off chance that they might stumble onto some answers?”

“We should muster some kind of militant support,” Modera says, tapping the end of her fountain pen against her lips in thought. “Appeal to the Warchief and the High King to send a small contingent of forces to support our efforts.”

“I fear King Varian would be…resistant to the idea of sparing forces for such a venture, what with the struggle in the Outlands so recently coming to a close.” Jaina purses her lips, brows drawn together in thought. “Perhaps one of the more neutral factions would be amenable.”

“What about the Argent Dawn?” Tyri’el offers, earning shallow nods from some around the table. “They, of all people, would be interested in protecting those going deep into Scourge territory.”

“I can send an emissary to Light’s Hope. At the very least, Highlord Fordring will entertain the notion of a plea for help.” Rhonin takes the stack of parchment from the middle of the table and reads through the lists of names. “We must find them. Light-willing, they’ll be alive and unharmed, but we should prepare for the worst.”

He looks around the table, straightening the papers into a neat stack.

“I think we’ve hashed out all we can for now. We’ll reconvene once word comes back from the Argent Dawn.”

The group rises from their chairs and begins to disperse. Rhonin and Vareesa leave together, talking quietly as they go, and Aethas rushes to catch up with Khadgar as he departs. Soon it’s only Tyri’el left in the room, taking a moment to heft himself from his chair before leaving the meeting room and dimming the magelights as he closes the door behind him. Someone is there in the hallway, and his tired brain takes a moment to register who it is, but not before he startles at their presence.

“Forgive me, Margrave,” Jaina says, dipping her head in apology.

“No harm done, Lady Proudmoore.” Tyri’el begins to walk away, finding that she falls in step beside him and remains quiet for a time. He looks down at her, one long eyebrow piqued. “Is there something you need, my lady?”

“I wanted to say that…” She seems to struggle for the right words. “I heard what happened to Kael’thas and I wanted to offer my condolences. I know your families were close.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Tyri’el says, swallowing hard. “I think he would have been heartened to hear that you still cared for him enough to mourn him.”

His words draw a wince from the human for the second time in only a handful of minutes.

“Despite what you may have heard, I did consider Kael a friend in many respects.”

Centuries of practice in etiquette keep Tyri’el from snorting at her statement, and outwardly, he only nods. Jaina seems pensive now, her eyes far away, and after a moment of awkward silence, she shakes her head and looks up at him.

“I’ll bid you good evening, Margrave,” she says, dipping her chin.

“Shorel’aran, Lady Proudmoore.” He bows at the waist, watching her walk away with a small degree of puzzlement over her confession. Admittedly, the only account he’d recieved regarding Jaina’s supposed spurning had been from his father, but he’d never imagined that she might feel some kind of remorse over the incident. She’d chosen the prince of Lordaeron over the prince of Quel’Thalas, but that had ended poorly as well, and as he walks from the Violet Citadel back towards Sunreaver Sanctuary, Tyri’el can’t help but draw further parallels between himself and his father.

Myral chirps happily at her master as he enters his backyard, and he goes about feeding her dinner, dumping buckets of grain and bundles of fragrant leafy greens into the feeding trough inside her stall. He pets her head as she eats, earning a content almost-purr from the large bird. She seems happy enough, cooped up as she is, and he resolves to take her for another walk in the forest as soon as he can manage. He hasn’t gone out with her in some time, telling himself he’s not afraid of meeting that elf who’d brought him a message from Violet, but he knows deep down that he is. The envelope, seal unbroken and message unread, still sits in his desk, and he does his best now to push the thought of it from his mind. He can’t afford to slip back into that darkness, not now.

Once the hawkstrider is properly fed and given some much-needed attention, Tyri’el turns back to the house, eyes immediately drawn to the second floor. One of the windows, the one he knows belongs to his study, is lit up from within. At first, he thinks that he might have simply forgotten to extinguish a light the night before, but as he watches, he realizes that the light is moving, as if held by someone or something. A short spell brings him into his house, just outside the door to his study, and he holds his breath and listens. There’s definitely someone inside, evident in soft footsteps and the rustle of cloth, and Tyri’el readies himself to fight the intruder as he slowly turns the doorknob without a sound.

The first thing he notices as he opens the door is the overwhelming scent of magic in the air. There’s faint flickers of a teleportation spell still evident, but the cloaked figure bent over his desk exudes such an aura of arcane energy that it makes Tyri’el dizzy for a moment.

“This is _fascinating_ ,” the figure says, even the deep timbre of his voice somehow laced with traces of magical energy. He turns, revealing an elven face beneath the deep blue hood of his cloak. From the stark blue of his eyes, he’s a high elf, but something about him is distinctly foreign, and it has Tyri’el immediately more on edge than he already is. “Tell me, what is it that you are trying to contain with this device?”

He holds up a glass vial with the hand not holding the magelight, the one Tyri’el has slaved over night after night in an attempt to find the right enchantment to contain Al’ar’s ashes without shattering from the heat.

“Who are you?” Tyri’el demands, raising his arms and calling energy into his hands. “How did you get into my house?”

“If it’s an energetic force, perhaps the enchantment would best be suited infused into the glass rather than woven around it, hm?” The strange elf doesn’t give any indication at all that he’s heard Tyri’el, instead turning his attention back to the vial. “You might also thread veins of cobalt into the physical structure as well, or perhaps—”

“Put that down.”

The elf startles, blinking a few times in surprise, before he replaces the vial to its stand with exaggerated motions.

“No need to shout, I was only trying to be helpful.”

“Who are you?” Tyri’el repeats, taking a step forward.

“Someone who has come a very long way only to be greeted like a common house thief.” He straightens his robes, and it reminds Tyri’el very much of a horse shaking itself when bothered by biting flies. “Though, I suppose to you I must look like one.”

“Very much so,” Tyri’el replies, hands still raised defensively.

“Accept my apologies, and doubly so for this.” The elf reaches into his robes and pulls out a handful of broken stone and hands it to Tyri’el, who looks down to realize it’s all that remains of the runestone that acted as both a lock on his front door and a ward protecting his entire house from unwelcome intrusion. The spell to put it in place had taken a hour and significant effort, so to see it reduced to nothing more than dust is disconcerting, but not surprising given the amount of power he can feel emanating from this intruder. “You should feel proud to know that it did give me a bit of trouble to bypass.”

_“Who are you?”_

The elf sighs, moving over to the window to draw the curtains. Without the light of the sunset, the room is thrown into an eerie darkness, lit only by the magelight still hovering by his desk. Turning around slowly, the elf locks eyes with Tyri’el.

“I’ve come here at great risk, so I must ask you to keep this meeting a secret.”

“That depends on who you serve.”

The elf snorts, muttering under his breath.

“Who, indeed.”

He reaches up for the hood of his cloak, drawing it back to reveal a cascade of near-black hair that reflects deeper shades of blue and purple in the light, like the opalescent lining of a seashell. What’s more, as he pulls back the last of the cloth to let it hang about his shoulders, he reveals a pair of horns that sprout from just behind his temples and curl back past his ears, spiraling inward like those of a ram. Inlaid into the dark bone are bands of deep blue stone, and runes hum with the faint glowing of power from where they’re carved almost artfully across the surface.

“My name is Verigos of the Blue Dragonflight.”

Eyes wide, Tyri’el drops his hands to match his slack jaw. Of all the dragonflights, the blues are held in the highest regard by mages - stewards of magic itself, tasked with guarding and maintaining the delicate balance of the arcane on Azeroth - and here he is with one inexplicably inside his house, rifling through his belongings. It makes sense now, why the room is practically buzzing with energy, the scent of magic hanging like a cloying mist around him. Without his inner font of power sated and restored by the Sunwell, he’s sure he would have felt the overwhelming urge to siphon some of it - and thank Belore he’s not tempted to try. That would only end poorly for him.

“I haven’t much time, so you must listen.” Verigos steps closer, seeming quite nervous for such a powerful being.

“I’ll take you to Archmage Rhonin at once,” Tyri’el begins, moving to the door, but it swings shut of its own accord.

“I didn’t come here for him. I came to speak to you and you alone, Tyri’el Sunstrider.”

Turning back to face the dragon, Tyri’el’s expression hardens and he clenches his jaw.

“How—”

“The Lord of Magic’s gaze reaches long, even to the verdant shores of your homeland. My flight watches mortals and their bloodlines, those possessed of strong affinities to the arcane.” He takes another step towards Tyri’el and there’s a minute change in the atmosphere of the room, just a flicker that could be fear or hesitation. “That is why I have sought you out, to tell you that you and your people are in grave danger.”

“The sin’dorei, or the Kirin Tor?”

“Both, and many more. Any mortal who wields the arcane risks the growing ire of the Spellweaver himself, and my lord Maylgos will not stand idle for much longer. My kin carry out his orders even now, converting your kind into zealous mage-hunters, and more will leave to join them if you do not take action.”

“The missing mages,” Tyri’el says, thinking back to the list of names presented at the meeting. “They’ve willingly joined the Blue Dragonflight?”

“I wish I could say they joined of fear, to preserve themselves - and truly, a small few did - but most are allied of their own free will. The first came with questions, inquiring about my lord diverting Azeroth’s ley lines, but they stayed because they believe in his new mission.” Verigos’s long ears droop at the tips, and his serene expression takes on a somber undertone. “Many of my brothers and sisters have been sent into mortal cities to whisper in the ears of mages, to tempt them over to his side. Those who survive the passage to Northrend are drawn into my flight and fed lies. Promised power and salvation from my lord’s wrath, but once he is done, Maylgos will destroy them, too.”

“What good are mortals to an Aspect?”

“They are foot soldiers. Humans would call them cannon-fodder.”

“Soldiers for what?”

“Malygos wishes to wage a war on all magic. He deems mortals too reckless with their use of the arcane, as the Highborne were, and he fears you will draw the Burning Legion back to Azeroth as it happened ten thousand years past.” Determination flashes in the dragon’s deep blue eyes, and power flickers around him. “He will come for your city. It is only a matter of time.”

Tyri’el takes in a deep breath, thinking on all he’s been told, and one thing about the dragon’s words sticks out plainly to him.

“Why come with a warning? Aren’t you bound to obey your scion’s orders?”

“There are those of us who see our lord’s intentions for what they are - madness. Malygos is too far removed from the mortal world, but we who dwell in it see the necessity of your kind’s use of magic - nay, the beauty of it. The flights are the stewards of this world, but Azeroth belongs to the younger races.” Verigos shakes his head, upper lip curling slightly to reveal sharp incisors that remind Tyri’el that this elven form is only an illusion. “Your kind do not deserve death simply because of the gifts the Titans saw fit to bestow upon you.”

“But why come to me? Why not go straight to the Council of Six?”

“As I said, you and your bloodline are known to me.” The dragon reaches up and points to the bands around his horns, and the dark stone glows with draconic runes. “These are marks of my post. I am a Watcher. Each flight has them, those of us tasked with observing the mortal world and intervening as our charge demands. Bronze Watchers monitor how mortals affect the ebb and flow of time, Green Watchers observe those whose dreams touch the Emerald Dream, Red Watchers safeguard against those who threaten the balance of life, and Blue Watchers keep careful eyes on mortal mages and how they use their powers. The Black…if they remember their Titan-given purpose, they have long since abandoned their duties.”

He shakes his head.

“It would be a woeful miscarriage of my duties if I did not do what I could to stop the impending slaughter. I cannot sit idly on my wings and allow your kind to be caught unaware. Please, you must heed my warnings.”

“I believe you,” Tyri’el says, head still awash with the dragon’s heady scent and the weight of his words. “But what can we do against an Apsect and the might of an entire dragonflight?”

“You fight.” Verigos holds up a clenched fist in a very mortal show of conviction. “You ready yourselves for the battle to come and you do not relent. Go to your Council and tell them what I have told you, but do not say that it was I who revealed it. I could very well be dead already, should any of the loyal members of my flight come to know what I’ve done.”

“I can guarantee your anonymity within the Council. They’ll hardly believe me without a source.”

“I have watched you since you were very small, Tyri’el. I know how you have overcome many things, and I have faith that you will conquer many more before your time here is through.” The dragon smiles, a reserved sort of mirth held in his glowing eyes. “Ready your people to fight. I will come to you again when the time is right.”

Before Tyri’el can speak, a blinding flash fills the room and Verigos is gone, leaving only a few fizzles of energy to spiral out and fall to the floor. He stares blankly at the spot where the dragon had stood, still trying to process all he’s learned. As if the Lich King and his Scourge infesting the roof of the world wasn’t already formidable enough, now they’ll have to contend with an entire flight of dragons, no less the ones more than capable of diverting entire ley lines on a whim.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Tyri’el leaves his study and makes for the Violet Citadel.

 

—

 

“Come in.”

Violet opens the door and slips into the room, finding the prince standing before a long mirror with his manservant, Wyll, fastening the last of the buttons on the high collar of his deep blue coat. Anduin fidgets with the sleeve like the fabric is itchy, but Violet thinks it’s more from nervousness than actual discomfort.

“Well, don’t you look handsome,” she says with a warm smile, and the prince’s face turns red, all the way up to the tips of his ears. “I’m sure you’ll steal the hearts of many a young noble tonight.”

“That’s what I told him, miss,” Wyll says, brushing non-existent dust from his charge’s shoulders. “And not just the young ladies, I’m sure.”

The elderly man winks at Violet, who chuckles.

“Thank you, Wyll. I think I can manage the rest from here.” Anduin says, his tone kind but with a hint of frustration. His manservant bows at the waist, nodding politely to Violet, and leaves the room. The young man watches him go and lets out a soft, restrained sigh before turning back to the mirror. “You look lovely this evening, Vi.”

“Thanks,” Violet says, looking down at her dress. It’s far too fancy for her tastes, but Dacian had it made especially for tonight, and she wouldn’t dare disappoint him. “I have a party to go to later. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

“You might,” Anduin says, smirking at her in the mirror as he fusses with his hair, when it’s already perfectly combed without a strand out of place. He’s grown, even in the handful of months Violet’s been in Stormwind, and she sees more and more of his father in his face as each week passes. Certainly not in his demeanor - that must come from his mother.

“Speaking of…” Violet holds out the hand she’s been keeping behind her back, offering a small package wrapped in shiny silver paper. “Happy birthday, Anduin.”

He turns, setting eyes on the present, and raises a golden eyebrow.

“You know you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Oh, but I did,” she replies, shaking her wrist to emphasize that he should take it from her. He does, almost gingerly, and holds the gift to his ear to shake it gently. It makes no sound, and he pouts in puzzlement. Violet smiles, watching him pull at the twine wrapped around it to keep the paper in place. “Fourteen is quite a milestone in the south, if I remember correctly.”

“What did you do for your fourteenth birthday?” Anduin pulls gently, almost timidly, at the twine, so intent on it that he misses the frown that overcomes Violet.

“Nothing special. Certainly no ball thrown in my honor.”

In truth, she’d been lost to the Mindless State the spring she turned fourteen. She’d have been in Stormwind already, somewhere deep in the recesses of the Stockades, chained like the beast she’d become. Doctor Arkwright couldn’t have known it was her birthday, so it was likely just another day for both of them. Her chest aches as she wonders what book he’d come to read her, knowing he’d sat just outside the bars of her cell each day for hours on end, reading to her and speaking casually of his life and family to acclimate her to his presence. Anduin seems to notice change in her when he glances up as he finally unties the twine.

“All right?” He asks, concern written deep in the lines of his young face. Forcing up a smile that she knows doesn’t touch her eyes, Violet nods, then gestures to the gift in his hands.

“Open it.”

The prince obeys, peeling off the paper to find a small metal box, unadorned except for a metal latch on the front. He flips the latch and tries to open the lid, but it doesn’t budge. He tries again, this time with a bit more force, but still the lid remains tightly shut.

“It’s stuck,” he says, looking up at her.

“No,” she says, a roguish twinkle in her eyes. “It’s locked.”

“Where’s the key?” He turns the box over in his hands and find nothing, then uncrumples the wrapping paper, finally looking to the floor to no avail. When he looks up, he sees Violet holding up her hand with a mischievous smirk. Wrapped around her wrist is a piece of string, tied to which is a small silver key. He narrows his eyes, clearly suspicious. “What do I have to do to get it?”

“This is your final test, my young apprentice,” she says, tucking the string and key under the sleeve of her dress. “Steal the key, or pick the lock. Only then will you have your prize.”

“And if I can’t?”

“We both know you can.” With that, Violet sweeps into an exaggerated bow, offering another cheeky smirk before dipping out of the room. Hit with an afterthought a second later, she re-appears in the doorway, finding the prince trying with all his might to pull open the box with his bare hands. He freezes when he realizes she’s back again, looking up with cheeks going crimson. Violet fixes him with a glare of mock severity. “If you ask Valeera or Bayard to open it for you, I’ll know.”

She leaves for good after that, moving away from the prince’s chambers. She comes into the hallway housing the door to the king’s study, her sensitive ears picking up an argument from within.

“We cannot ignore this, Varian. Every day, reports come in from—” It’s Bolvar that’s speaking, pleading underlying his words.

“I have read the reports, same as you. Our forces are still stretched too thin. We cannot send aid to Tirion so soon.”

“You know as well as I that it’s only a matter of time before the Scourge reaches our doorstep.”

“Bolvar, I share your concern, but we cannot—”

“Varian, you lost Stormwind once in your life already. Nearly a second time only recently. Will you risk your home a third time because you refuse to act? Or will you wall off your city like—”

“Tread carefully, Highlord.” There’s a growl in the king’s voice now.

“We cannot stand idly by. If you will not send support to the Argent Dawn, I will go myself.”

Bolvar swiftly exits the king’s study just as Violet passes by, and he might have run into her had she not heard his footsteps and moved away from the door in time.

“Miss Devereaux,” he says, already fixing a calm mask over his previously flustered expression. “Forgive me, I didn’t see you there.”

“No harm done, Highlord,” Violet says, offering a smile. He smells like fear and anxiety, something she would never associate with the paladin, but she can’t blame him in the least. Whispers have been circulating for weeks, that the Plaguelands are filling with undead, that even Arthas himself has been seen for the first time in years. She’s tried her best to ignore it, but the pit of her stomach has been heavy with memories and budding rage.

“Please, excuse me.” Bolvar dips his chin and leaves Violet to stare after him, finally shaking her head and continuing on her way.

There’s talk of war with the Scourge, if only in hushed tones with trusted company. Some are calling it the Fourth War, or perhaps just a continuation of the Third War, when the Scourge will be wiped out and the traitor prince made to pay for his crimes. Violet thinks now of the Undercity, of the ruins left of her former home, and of the beings that now inhabit it. She thinks of Sylvanas, of her Forsaken, and all the souls lost because of Arthas. Her hands find her necklace, and she thinks of her mother, of her life and death at the hands of someone once a devout servant of the Light. A growl builds in her chest, her upper lip curling into a feral sneer.

“Little moon?”

Stopping in her tracks, Violet comes from her thoughts to find Dacian a few steps away, watching her with a mix of hesitation and concern. She realizes how tense she is, how her hands are curled like claws, and forces herself to relax.

“I thought you’d be downstairs,” she says, approaching him and stepping up on her tiptoes to rearrange a stray curl of raven hair.

“I will be, but I have to lead the escort taking the king and Prince Anduin down to the stables before the party officially starts.”

“The stables?”

“King Varian’s birthday gift to the prince,” Dacian says, absently taking Violet’s hands in his as he looks her over. “A new horse, barely a year old. Supposedly, he’s bred from royal stock rescued from Lordaeron before the plague.”

Violet makes a non-committal sound as she watches her reflection in the gleaming metal of her betrothed’s dress armor. Even there, she looks weary and uncertain, dressed up for a party full of people she doesn’t know and doesn’t really care to.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” Dacian cups her chin and looks down at her, studying her face before pulling her into a gentle kiss.

“Every day,” Violet replies, and though her smile is mostly there by force, there’s a small kernel of genuine happiness at its core. The aching wound within her, at first so raw when she’d lost Tyri’el, has begun to heal - or at the very least, stopped hemorrhaging so violently. On the good days, she can go without thinking of him until she’s alone in her quarters, faced with silence and solitude that was once filled with him. On the bad days…she wakes from nightmares and can’t shake his haunted gaze from her mind. It’s those days that she goes to the harbor and watches the ships, a handful of gold in her pocket, but she never works up the courage to board one, and returns to the Keep to weep herself to sleep. Days like that have become fewer and fewer, but she’s still acutely aware of his absence, of the chills he used to chase away and the small ways she’d grown used to his presence - soft sighs, the latent hum of arcane energy, the scent of parchment and ink. The way he’d looked at her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

He’d sent no reply to the letter Valeera had taken to him. Part of her had known he wouldn’t, that the wound was still too fresh for him, but that doesn’t lessen the sting of his rejection. So many promises he’d made to her, so many that she should have stopped him from speaking and dooming them to this inevitable end. She should have stopped herself as soon as she’d realized her feelings, but like so many other things in her life, she hadn’t known when to simply cut her losses and walk away. The one thing she didn’t run from was the very thing that she should have fled from and never, ever looked back.

“Will you save a dance for me?” Dacian brushes his thumb over her cheek where his hand still cradles her face.

“Of course, my love.”

Dacian grins, so boyish in his glee that a pang of nostalgia hits Violet hard in the gut, and steals another kiss before he drops his hand and moves away from her and towards the prince’s quarters. Nearly five months into her stay in Stormwind, Violet is now more than acquainted enough with the layout of the Keep that she has no trouble making her way down to the ground floor. She can hear the musicians warming up from inside the grand ballroom, but she follows the hallway in the opposite direction, away from the throngs of nobles coming into the castle, and moves towards the throne room and the gardens beyond. A fresh coating of snow covers the trees and bushes in the courtyard, with more falling in slow, fat flakes from the darkened sky. It’s almost peaceful, and she leans against one of the pillars and looks up, watching the clouds drift past the sliver of moon hanging above her.

Snow always reminds her of her mother. Because of the currents bringing warm waters up to Gilneas, and living right along the coast, snow was rare in Greyhaven. It fell often in the mountains, but on those rare occasions where more than a few flakes would fall and accumulate outside their door, her mother would wake her up early in the morning, early enough to see the sun rise and turn the village into a field of diamonds reflecting the light. They’d make snow angels and tumble around until both were nearly frozen stiff, and then her mother would bundle her up by the fire and make spiced tea, telling her fairy stories until it was time for her daily chores.

Violet’s cheeks are wet and her hand is curled around her locket when footsteps catch her ear, and she quickly wipes at her eyes and tries to make herself look as normal as possible. Her other self senses the wolf before he comes into her peripheral vision, and she looks over to find the king looking up into the night sky as he comes to stand beside her.

“The party will be starting soon,” Varian says, not taking his eyes off the moon.

“I suppose I lost track of time.” She drops her hand from her necklace, and the king looks over at the motion. His expression is mostly unreadable, but the tiniest hint of a frown overcomes him. They stand in silence for a time, and then Varian crosses his arms over his broad chest with a small grunt.

“I hate winter,” he says, and Violet looks over to find him seemingly lost in thought. The Horde destroyed Stormwind in winter, if she recalls her history correctly, meaning that Varian had seen his father slain and lost his mother shortly after that, before being forced to flee north to Lordaeron. That’s when he’d met her mother, too, after he and Sir Lothar had arrived in Capital City. Varian pushes a sigh out through his nose. “Always have.”

The frown disappears, and the corners of his mouth turn up into the closest thing to a genuine smile she’s ever seen him wear.

“It was only fitting that my son be born in the middle of it.”

That makes Violet smile, seeing in such a small statement how much the man loves his son. It heartens her to know that, even though they fight and constantly clash with each other, Anduin still knows how much his father cares for him. The young prince has confided in her many times, sometimes with his eyes full of tears and sometimes with nothing but a stony expression, about how Varian can fly off the handle at the smallest provocation, but he still loves the man dearly.

She’d often sat alone in her quarters after those conversations, after Anduin had calmed down and gone back to his own duties, and curled up on the window sill to watch the light reflect off her locket as she wondered what it might be like to know a father’s love. Only once, Eliana had let slip that the necklace, her most prized possession that she’d worn with pride until the day she’d died, had been a gift from Violet’s father. She’d quickly changed the subject, as she always did when her daughter asked about her father, and Violet had caught her in her room later, weeping into her hand as she’d held the locket against her chest.

“Finally,” Varian mutters under his breath, uncrossing his arms as he squints into the sky. Violet looks at him in question, realizing that she hears something from up above them, and follows his line of sight. Her eyes, much sharper than those of a normal human, pick out a small shape, only slightly darker than the near-black sky, and her ears pick up the sound of wings, feathered rather than sinuous. After just a few more moments, it becomes clear that it’s a large bird, and as it draws closer, angling down towards the gardens, she realizes it has horns sprouting from its head. This is no true bird, but rather a druid, she’s sure of it.

Confirming her suspicions, the storm crow dives into the middle of the gardens, swirling with a rush of green magic as it changes shapes. A night elf lands lithely on top of the snow, the leather of his boots not breaking the surface, and straightens up with a grin. Varian is not a small man by any means, but the night elf easily dwarfs the king as he trudges through the snow to grasp forearms with his friend, but that’s not what has Violet in awe. A pair of antlers sprout from the kaldorei’s forehead, marking him as a very powerful druid, indeed.

“You’re late,” Varian says, though there’s no annoyance in his voice.

“I was told seven o’clock and…” The night elf pauses, long ears twitching, and down near Cathedral Square, the city’s clock tower begins to chime. “Seven it is, Varian Wrynn.”

Varian shakes his head and rolls his eyes, clapping his hand on the druid’s shoulder and walking back towards the edge of the gardens.

“Anduin will be glad that you came.”

“I would not miss this. I understand fourteen years old is an important age for humans. It marks the transition into adulthood, yes?”

“Don’t remind me,” Varian says, shaking his head again. “I’m too young to have a son that old.”

Violet snorts at that, reaching up to cover her mouth in embarrassment, and the night elf pauses and looks at her, and then Varian, in question.

“Forgive me, your majesty,” Violet says, mortified. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“No offense taken,” the king replies, and Violet swears there’s even a hint of amusement in his voice. He gestures to Violet. “This is Violet, Guard Captain Goddard’s betrothed. Violet, this is Broll Bearmantle, one of my most trusted allies.”

“Ishnu alah,” Violet says, bowing at the waist with her palm over her heart.

“Ishnu dal dieb,” Broll replies, also bowing. He seems puzzled by her use of the traditional greeting and gesture, but has no time to voice his curiosity. Something collides head-on with him and nearly knocks him off his feet.

“I thought I smelled an old bear,” Valeera says, grinning wide and wrapping her arms around him in a crushing hug. Broll laughs, a deep, rich sound, and returns the hug.

“I am glad to see you, too, shass’adal.”

“The gang’s all here,” Valeera says, one arm still around Broll’s neck as she drapes the other over Varian’s shoulder. “Gets me in the mood for a fight.”

“Perhaps later,” Varian says, he and Broll practically dragged away by their necks by the blood elf. Valeera winks at Violet as they pass, and Violet is left to follow them back towards the ballroom where the party is just starting.

The room is by far the largest in the Keep, but it’s packed with nobles and other important guests, some dancing and others conversing or enjoying the fine food and drink being served. Anduin is already here as well, and when he sees his father enter with Broll and Valeera, he politely excuses himself from a group of young noblewomen practically fawning over him. Their disappointment is painfully clear on their faces, and Violet smiles to herself as she settles against one wall and takes in the whole of the party. She spots Dacian a few times, speaking to his guards and watching the guests with the keen eyes of a trained protector.

Anduin seems to be enjoying himself, talking and laughing with guests as they come to impart their well-wishes on him. Varian stays close to him at all times, and Violet can see the wolf in him from all the way across the ballroom, tense and waiting to pounce at anyone who might dare to threaten his son. Bayard is there, too, in fancier clothing than his normal leathers, always near the prince and king. He seems to be keeping an eye on Violet as well, as does a man who she’s never seen before. He looks remarkably like Bayard, with copper hair and striking green eyes, and the way he moves around the room marks him as a rogue as well. More than once, she catches him watching her. She can’t decide if he’s suspicious of her or just curious, but she makes sure to keep tabs on him throughout the night.

During a lull in the music, Anduin finds her leaning against the wall, her arms uncrossing from over her chest as he approaches.

“You look terribly bored,” he says, and she chuckles.

“I could say the same thing of you.”

“I’m not much for parties,” the young man says, keeping his voice lowered as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “Too much noise, and too many people only looking to further their own interests. It’s…tiring.”

“And how many marriage proposals have you recieved thus far, crown prince?” Violet means it as a joke, but Anduin winces at her words.

“None outright, but nobles keep insisting they introduce their daughters or nieces to me. It doesn’t take much thought to guess why.”

“No one’s caught your eye, then?”

“None of them, no,” he says, a dusting of pink on his cheeks. Violet sighs inwardly, knowing that what Dacian had said is true, that he does harbor a crush on her. It’s flattering, certainly, to be thought of that way by the prince, but if anything, she sees him as a younger brother. She hasn’t the heart to tell him that, instead putting her hand on his shoulder and fixing him with a kind gaze.

“Don’t be too quick to grow up, Anduin. Love is something that comes when it’s meant to, and not always when we think it should.”

“That’s what Bolvar tells me. Father, too.” He adds the last part as an afterthought. “I would think they’d be eager to marry me off, but I’ve never heard a word about it.”

“Give it a few more years. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts.”

Anduin seems to notice the dark undercurrent to words, the way her stomach clenches and her breathing hitches at the thought that she’ll be married in just a few months, and that familiar look of concern overcomes him. He holds out his hand with a smirk, and for a moment, Violet thinks he must be up to something, but it’s gone when he speaks.

“In that case, may I have this dance, my lady?”

Violet puts her hand over her heart, feigning a swoon, and takes his hand.

“It would be an honor, your highness.”

Anduin’s answering grin is infectious, and they move out onto the dance floor, well aware that nearly every eye in the place is following them as they take up postures. Anduin seems reluctant to place his hand on her waist, but she gives him a small nod of permission and he relaxes. She puts her hand on his shoulder and their hands stay clasped as the music begins.

“It’s been so long since I’ve danced,” Violet admits, worried the curious - and sometimes clearly jealous - onlookers will notice how out of practice she is. She catches sight of Dacian standing near the king, and he looks like he’s trying hard to keep a straight face.

 _I told you so_ , he mouths at her, and she has to fight the urge to stick her tongue out at him like a child. Anduin seems oblivious, his face a deep shade of red, but his steps are smooth and precise, evidence of the many hours of lessons he’s likely endured since childhood.

“It doesn’t show,” he says, obviously uncomfortable at having to look her in the eye.

“This is going to set tongues wagging, you know.” Violet wiggles her eyebrows and the prince lets out a genuine laugh, more at ease as the song continues.

“Let them talk.”

The song ends and they step away, bowing to each other amid the polite clapping of the guests that have been watching. Anduin straightens up with a satisfied smirk.

“What’s that for?” Violet asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing.” The smirk widens into a grin and he walks away, prompting her to follow him from the dance floor.

“Anduin Llane Wrynn,” she calls once they’re in the large hallway outside the ballroom. He pauses, turning to face her as she approaches. “What’s so funny?”

“Consider my training complete.” He holds up the small box she had given him, as well as the string holding the key. She reflexively reaches for her wrist, finding it bare, and she can’t help but laugh.

“You little—” She smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “I should have known you were up to something.”

“And I owe it all to you, Vi,” he says, flipping open the latch and putting the key into the lock. He looks relieved when a little click precedes the lid popping open, revealing a velvet cushion inside. Nestled between the folds is a brass ring, depicting a roaring lion in striking detail. Anduin pauses, turning it in the light, and pulls it from the box. “It’s…a ring.”

“Not just any ring.” Violet pulls him into a small alcove and out of sight. “Put it on.”

He obeys and slips it onto his middle finger, looking as if he expects something to happen.

“Thank you, Vi. It’s…very nice.”

Violet rolls her eyes and takes his hand. He startles at the contact, looking at her in surprise.

“See these?” She puts her thumb and forefinger on either side of the lion’s mane, showing him two small protrusions that, to a casual observer, look like just another detail carved into the metal. He nods, and she pulls her hand back. “Find them with the insides of your fingers and squeeze.”

The prince squeezes his index and ring fingers against the sides of the ring, and the wide band on the underside springs open. He turns his hand over to bare his palm, finding a small compartment built into the ring.

“What are these?” He asks, pulling out two small brass rods no larger across than a copper piece.

“Pull on them.”

He obeys, and the rods lengthen like a telescope, turning into two small lockpicking tools.

“In case you get yourself in a bind. Those will pick the locks on any standard manacles, as well as simpler locks on doors or cells. And this,” she says, pulling on the inside of the compartment to reveal a small blade attached with a tiny screw, “is to cut through ropes if you’re bound with those instead.”

“I…I don’t know what to say.” Anduin collapses and replaces the tools and pushes the blade back into place before closing the compartment and turning his hand back and forth in amazement. “Thank you.”

“Just promise me you’ll keep it on you when you go out.”

“I will.”

Violet smiles and pulls him into a hug.

“Happy birthday, Anduin.” He’s taller than her now, and he rests his chin on her shoulder as he returns the hug. She pulls back and leads him from the alcove. “Come on, they’ll be starting rumors that we’re snogging in the broom closet if we stay out here too long.”

“They already have,” Bayard says, materializing next to the prince. Anduin puts his hand over his face and sighs. The other rogue gives Violet a reproving look but says nothing.

“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d skipped out on your own birthday party.”

A woman approaches them, and Anduin immediately lights up and rushes to her.

“Aunt Jaina,” he says, and she holds out her arms and embraces him in a tight hug. “You came.”

“A little late, but I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Jaina pulls back, smoothing at his hair as she looks him over. “Light, you’re going to be as big as your father.”

“As big a what?” Anduin asks her, and she laughs, patting his cheek.

“That remains to be seen.” She looks over her shoulder, nodding to Bayard, who nods back. Her eyes then move to Violet, and she seems momentarily taken aback, her face paling for a moment before she seems to recover.

“And who’s this, Anduin?”

“This is Violet Devereaux. She’s betrothed to Captain Goddard.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Violet,” Jaina says, dipping her chin in greeting.

“We’ve met before, Lady Proudmoore, but only briefly, and many years ago.” Violet curtsies, straightening back up to find the other woman studying her. Seeing her confusion, she elaborates. “I was introduced to you at a Winter's Veil ball, as an initiate of the Silver Hand.”

Jaina pauses, something flashing in her eyes just before realization overcomes her.

“You were one of Dame Montrose’s charges. A student of Uther’s.”

“I was, my lady. I’m honored you remember me.”

“I remember a lot about that night.” Jaina seems to shrink in on herself for a moment, but it passes like a storm cloud and a kind smile returns to her face. “Congratulations on your betrothal.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Let’s go find that father of yours, shall we?”

“He’ll be happy to see you.” Anduin holds out his arm and Jaina hooks hers around it, and they move back towards the ballroom. The prince looks over his shoulder and gestures with his head for Violet to follow him. She does, eyes cast downward as she shakes her head, ashamed of herself for not thinking about what she had said to Jaina. She’d heard the rumors that swirled after that night, that her engagement to Arthas had been swiftly and unexpectedly called off with no public explanation. Uther had been upset by it, that much she remembers, and if it had so affected the normally stoic and controlled paladin, she can’t imagine what it must have done to Jaina.

It’s that thought that makes Violet realize that she knows _exactly_ what it had done to the other woman. It gives her little hope for her own future, to see that Jaina is still clearly grieving the loss of her beloved after so long, and she prays to the Light that years from now, she is better healed from her loss.

Again finding a empty spot against the wall, Violet settles back into watching the party, her mood now soured. She has no desire to rejoin the festivities, and retreats into herself, purposely steering her thoughts away any time she drifts towards thoughts of Tyri’el. They seem eager to spring into the forefront of her mind tonight, and it becomes a constant battle to keep herself from spiraling back to the dark place she’d clawed her way out of only recently.

“Might I trouble you for a dance, miss?”

Violet glances up, ready to reject whoever has dared approach her, but instead finds Dacian, looking expectantly to her with his hand held out in front of him.

“I don’t know that my betrothed would appreciate that, good sir.” A bit of her humor returns, somewhat soothed by the way he grins.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says, winking at her and taking her hand. The party has begun to wind down, many of the nobles either too bored or too drunk to stay, and the dance floor is mostly empty as the musicians strike up a slow, flowing melody. Dacian holds her close, and she rests her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. “Just think, little moon. In a few month’s time, we’ll be dancing at our wedding.”

Violet swallows hard, emotions warring within her, but for the first time, there’s peace in her heart alongside the apprehension. She lets herself imagine it, if only for a moment, and finds herself smiling at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Shass'adal_ , what Broll calls Valeera, is a word I parsed together from the Darnassian wiki page to mean something like "little light-hair", a term of endearment he uses because he sees her as almost like a daughter, apparently.


	10. Death Comes For Us All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Mentions of alcoholism/addiction thought patterns, mild blood/bodily ickyness.

The last time Tyri’el saw the Northern Lights, he had been at the base of the Icecrown Glacier, helping his father and uncle drag an unconscious and heavily-wounded Illidan through one of Lady Vashj’s portals. Only fleeting glances of color remain in his memory, having been thoroughly exhausted by the fruitless battle against Arthas, but he still remembers them after all this time. The vivid colors now dancing above him are nothing short of mesmerizing, and he watches the blues and greens shift in the darkened sky with all the wonder his clouded mind can afford him.

He’s somehow sprawled flat on his back in the grass of his front yard, blinking lazily as he tries and fails to remember how he’s gotten here. The day - and indeed, the weeks before it - has been grueling, that much he recalls. The Council of Six had taken Verigos’s warning with grave seriousness, and within days had rooted out three members of the blue dragonflight working to tempt the mages of the city over to their Aspect’s side. Warning was sent to both factions, and when more dragons in disguise were flushed from their ranks, both the Warchief and High King had sent forces to aid the Kirin Tor in their newest reconnaissance mission into Northrend. The Argent Dawn had sent a paltry half-dozen priests and paladins to aid their efforts, allegedly all Highlord Fordring could spare, now that Acherus hangs at his doorstep and the undead again pour from Stratholme, but the gesture of solidarity was not lost on the Council.

Not a single member of the expedition force was lost, and a handful of wayward mages were recovered and brought back to the safety of Dalaran with the promise of protection in exchange for their first-hand accounts of what they witnessed under Malygos’s rule. The information they provided was grim at best, painting the Spellweaver as crazed and fervent in his intentions to wipe out all magic on Azeroth. They spoke of blue dragons twisting the ley lines that run like veins across the planet and forcing them all to flow to the dragonflight’s seat of power, a massive arcane fortress known as the Nexus, and that this had resulted in the very fabric of reality ripping and the Twisting Nether bleeding out into this world. They also confirmed what Verigos had told Tyri’el - Malygos’s eye has been fixed on Dalaran for some time, and that his hatred for the city of mages runs deep.

All the recovered mages, be they Horde, Alliance, or otherwise, were absolutely adamant in one thing - the crazed Aspect of Magic must be stopped.

Many long nights of deliberation had led the Council of Six and other high-ranking members of the Kirin Tor to agree that they could not sit idle and wait for Malygos to come for them. Combined with the reports from the expedition of the amount of Scourge activity in every corner of Northrend, the news of Malygos’s plans forced the Council’s hand, and they came to the decision that the fight must be taken to Malygos himself, and to Arthas.

And so Dalaran, already a testament to the wonders of magic in the hands of mortals, left its place at the shores of Lordamere Lake and took to the skies. It was a feat of magic that had taken the combined efforts of every mage of the Kirin Tor, one that uprooted the city from its foundations and teleported it thousands of miles northward, to float in the skies of a tranquil, crystalline forest in the heart of Northrend itself. Crystalsong Forest, already awash with arcane energies from Highborne misdeeds in days gone by, was the perfect location for their new base against the Blue Dragonflight - Coldarra, the home of the Nexus and its draconic keepers, sits just a day’s flight away, and Icecrown Citadel, the Lich King’s unholy bastion of power, can be reached in less than that.

Such an influx of energy did not go unnoticed by Malygos and his brood. Dragons fly much faster than gryphons or wyverns, and within a few hours, Dalaran was besieged and their efforts almost thwarted. The Blue Dragonflight was ultimately repelled, but the damage done to the city was significant, and Tyri’el had spent many days aiding the efforts to rebuild and restore the city.

Perhaps he’s spread-eagle on the lawn because he’s simply exhausted from another long day of cleaning up rubble and re-weaving enchantments, but the sting on his tongue tells him that it was whatever he’s been drinking that made him lose his balance. He can’t quite recall what he’s imbibed this evening, or how much, but the drinks always seem to run together these last few months. There are bottles in his desk at the Violet Citadel, nestled away under piles of undone paperwork, bottles in every room of his house, and always a flask in his cloak and one he keeps in the pocket of his trousers. The owner of One More Glass knows him by name, and welcomes him with a smile each morning, one that has gone from warm and inviting to sad and laced with pity over time.

He knows it’s a problem, that it’s beginning to show in his work and to those close to him, but it’s the only way he doesn’t have to _feel_. The drinks stopped the demons from chittering in his ears at first, but then they only became louder, so he had to drink more just to drown them out. They return with every hint of sobriety, as do the memories, and the only way to get _that face_ out of his mind’s eye is to drown himself until he sees and knows nothing at all.

He tells himself it’s not so bad anymore, that he has a handle on it, but this evening had sent him spiraling back into a heavy backslide. Just as he’d finished aiding in the re-installment of pavestones in part of the residential area on the west side of the city, he’d overhead an argument about finishing the repairs on the nearby cathedral. Initially, it had been nothing more to him than a squabble between a few humans, but then one of the women had thrown out a name, and it had hit him like a javelin square in the chest.

_Violet._

He hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking her for clarification, and in the numbness and rising panic, he’d even agreed to speak to someone about seeing that the repairs are done within the next few weeks, just in time for her son’s wedding.

That’s the very last thing Tyri’el remembers before coming into awareness as he is now. His body is heavy and he feels sick, too weak to even lift his head to check the time on his pocketwatch. Nothing comes to mind when he tries to recall when he last ate, or drank anything that wasn’t alcohol. There’s a cricket in the grass somewhere near him, and its lazy chirping sends pain through his head like a bolt of wayward lightning. Even the groan he tries to force out is barely more than a rush of air past his lips, and he begins to wonder how long he’s been here, and how he’s going to make it into the house in this state. The hot flutter of anxiety starts in his chest, and for a moment, he can’t breathe. The panicked effort it takes to drag in a breath, as well as the heated voice of self-loathing echoing in his head, drowns out the sound of the latch on the front gate sliding open.

“U-uncle T?”

That voice isn’t coming from inside his head, and Tyri’el realizes his eyes have slipped closed. He opens them, finding a small, cloaked shape making its way over to him hesitantly.

“Uncle T, what’s wrong?” Senna kneels over him, the glowing teal of her eyes standing out against the darkness. “Are you sick?”

He tries to say her name, but his mouth is dry and his tongue feels leaden. Just the effort it takes to try to lift his head sends a wave of nausea over him, and he falls into unconsciousness. A few times, he comes around for a handful of moments, met with voices and the sensation of being moved, but the impressions are only brief before he blacks out again.

The first thing he sees when he finally opens his eyes, head throbbing and eyes stinging from the light of a single candle, is a long tress of golden hair attached to whoever is wiping his brow with a cool cloth. His heart leaps, and he dares to let himself hope, but raising his eyes just a few inches higher immediately turns his joy into shame, and then dread.

“There you are, sundrop.” Keldra’s voice is calm, but Tyri’el can see from way the candlelight hits her face that his mother has been weeping. Her spectacles are wet around the bottom rim from trapped tears, and she sets the cloth aside and takes them off, wiping at her cheeks as she does. Tyri’el shifts uncomfortably under the covers, his body protesting with pain and a fresh wave of nausea as he does. His mother brings up a pail and holds his hair out of the way as he empties his stomach, rubbing his back until he’s done and collapsed back against the sheets.

“Forgive me, mother,” he says, accepting a glass of water from her with shaking hands and taking small, furtive sips. He can’t bear to meet her eyes, knowing exactly the level of disappointment he’ll see in them.

“I am not the one you should be apologizing to, young man.” Keldra takes the glass from him when he spills some onto himself, setting it on the bedside table and smoothing at her son’s hair. Tyri’el chances a look up at her, finding golden eyes stern but softened by concern. “You scared your niece nearly to death.”

“Why…why was she here?”

“You’ve been ignoring her again, my sun. She saved her coins to pay the portalmaster to send her here, and when she got here…”

Keldra looks down and away, worrying her lower lip between her teeth in an uncharacteristic display of anxiety.

“Where is she?” Tyri’el looks around, seeing that the darkened bedroom around them is empty, and the rest of the house is quiet, as well.

“At Hathir and Rhen’s, calming down.” Keldra sniffs, her motions now more like petting than fussing with his hair. “She thought you were dead.”

Tyri’el sighs through slack lips, staring up at the ceiling.

“I may as well be.”

The other elf’s hand stills for a moment, moving from his hair to grasp at his ear and tug. Tyri’el yelps, whimpering like a lynx cub as his mother forces him to look at her.

“Do not ever say such a thing again, am I understood?”

Tyri’el nods hurriedly, stomach turning at the rapid motion, and Keldra releases him. Her eyes are ringed with tears again, and she pulls him up into a tight hug.

“I will not lose you, my shining sun. Not now, not to this.” She kisses the crown of his head, gently rocking him back and forth. He wants to push her away, to tell her that he’s fine and doesn’t need his mother’s care, but he finds himself wrapping his arms around her and clinging to her like he did when he was a small child.

“I’m sorry, mother.”

“Hathir told me this is nothing new, that this has been going on for months and only getting worse.” Her voice is thick with emotion, and it makes his chest clench. “Why are you hurting yourself like this?”

Tyri’el swallows hard, already wanting to reach for another drink. He’s too sober, too at the mercy of all the emotions clamoring for a chance to dig their nails into his heart. He sees Violet, not on that day he’s tried so futilely to erase, but instead dressed in white, with flowers in her hair and held in a bouquet in her hands. He sees her heavy with child and surrounded by a family that by all rights should have been his. She’s smiling and happy, and he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Violet is gone,” he says simply, choking on a sob. It’s been months since he’s spoken her name, but it still escapes him softly and with great care.

“I know.”

Tyri’el looks up at his mother, eyes clouded and head swimming. She lets out a soft sigh, brushing her fingers across his forehead to push his hair from his face.

“Your uncle told me.”

“He had no right.” A flash of anger overcomes Tyri’el, and again, he finds himself wishing for something to drink. In his nightstand, there’s a bottle of—

“He was worried for you, sundrop. Your uncle knows what it means to lose a great love better than most.”

That gives Tyri’el pause. Beleron had lost his wife at nearly the same time that Sylvanas, the first woman he’d ever grown to love, had been slain. He carries the guilt of both deaths, and those of his children, within him every day.

“It was my fault,” he manages, burying his face in his mother’s robes.

“Perhaps,” Keldra responds, her hand cupping the back of his skull, “but would she have wanted you to turn to this in your grief?”

The wounded part of him, the one that he’s given wildly free reign to since that day, snarls immediately that Violet wouldn’t care, that she left him and wouldn’t bat an eye if he threw himself off the tallest steeple in the city. But he knows somewhere deep inside, under the weight of everything else he’s tried to bury, that she would hate to see what he’s done to himself. A memory comes back to him, of the night before they’d gone to Tempest Keep, where she had chastised him for even thinking of such a thing, and made him promise never to be so callous about his own life.

Yes, she had cared so deeply for him, and he had pushed her away.

“No,” Tyri’el says finally, knowing in his heart that Violet would hate to see him like this, and he wishes she was here to pull him out of this hole he’s dug himself into. The clawing want for a drink rears up stronger and even harder to resist, and he finds himself reaching out towards his bedside table.

“No, Tyri’el.” Keldra stays his hand, her grip firm on his wrist as she guides it back to his side. “I will not allow you to poison yourself any longer.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument, but he finds himself struggling against her grip.

“I’m not a child, mother. I can—”

“You are not a child, but you are the only child I have left.”

Tyri’el drops his hand, turning to look at her. In the dimness of the room, his mother looks as lost and as hopeless as she had the day Silvermoon fell, the day she lost her eldest son. The day he became an only child.

“Promise me, my brightest star, that you will fight this. That you will accept the help of those who love you, and that you will…” Keldra stops, her ears drooping as a true sob escapes her. “Promise me that I will not have to bury another son.”

Their positions shift, and it becomes Tyri’el who envelops her in his arms, supporting her weight as she weeps. He wonders briefly what Ralen would have said if he could see what his younger brother had done to himself, but he already knows the answer. Ralen would have easily wrestled him to the ground and held him down until he admitted to being as much of a fool as he’s feeling now. His brother had a way of knocking sense into him, of saying so much without really saying much at all. Senna is quite the opposite, but still so much like her father. She’ll never know him, or her mother, like he did, and the guilt of having her see him in such a terrible state returns tenfold.

He’s been so consumed by his own grief that he’s completely forgone any care for the battles ahead, and what’s been lost in those long since passed. The Lich King, who took everything from his mother, from his uncle, from him, is mounting a full-scale war against every living being on Azeroth. He thinks again of Violet, of everything Arthas has stolen from her.

She’s what he has to fight for - for her and every other child left without their parents, for everyone who had to bury their children or their lovers - and he can no longer be so selfish. The need to forget, to just exist in nothing but complete numbness, still lives inside him, but for the first time, he sees it as the crutch that it is and not the salvation he thought it to be.

Tyri’el looks down at his mother, knowing he must be strong for her and so many others, if not for himself.

“I promise.”

 

—

 

For the first time in months, it’s warm enough for Violet to be out without more than a light cloak, and even the breeze blowing the smell of salt and seaweed up from the harbor is pleasant rather than bracing. She’s perched on one of the multitude of stairs leading down from Stormwind proper, taking a bite from a goldenbark apple as she watches the ships come and go. Today, they’re only ships, no longer vessels that might deliver her to freedom. There is no longer a part of her wishing to flee - though she can’t decide if she’s finally found peace, or has simply resigned herself to her fate.

A few weeks from now, she’ll be married. Dacian has taken every opportunity, whether they’re tangled up in his bed late into the night or taking a stroll along the beach at noontime, to promise her that nothing will come between them this time. Not even when Dalaran, his childhood home and the place where they’re to be wed, was raised from the ground and teleported to the heart of Northrend did his promises waver. He’d simply found mages within Stormwind willing to open portals for guests when the day finally arrives.

Her birthday has come and gone, and Dacian had held her through the nights of tears and white-hot rage that the days surrounding it always bring. Twenty-one now, but deep inside still so much a child in need of her mother. She mourned Thyani’s death anew as well, that horrid night seeming like only a few weeks past rather than a year. And, deep in the night when Dacian was asleep at her back with his arms around her, she had mourned for Tyri’el. They’d met at such a time of chaos for her, when her heart was engulfed in a firestorm that she thought only blood could quench, but he hadn’t shied away. In time, that fire had changed into something different, something beautiful and precious, and she had not been afraid of the flames.

The fire is still there, sleeping like a dragon in its lair, but Violet knows she must leave it be. Part of her will always love him, she suspects, or love what they were and what they could have been. She knows he will find someone new, in time, though that thought always brings forth a yawning, clawing envy in her gut. He deserves to be loved in a way she probably never could, by someone of his own race who won’t be dead in the blink of an elven eye.

The sweet fruit in her mouth bitters at the thought, and she throws the half-eaten apple as far away as she can manage and rests her chin on her knees. Something tickles her nose, just the barest hint of a strangely familiar scent, but the salty air carries it away as quickly as it had come.

“Care for some company, miss?”

Violet looks over her shoulder, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, and finds two cloaked figures looming over her. The shorter of the two pulls back their hood just a hint, and a lock of golden hair slips out.

“About time,” she says, standing and brushing the dust from the back of her trousers. “I was beginning to think you’d been caught.”

“You taught me better than that, Vi,” Anduin says, giving her a wide grin from beneath his hood. “Fortunately, father and Bolvar are busy meeting with the House of Nobles, so it was easy to slip away.”

“More and more a proper rogue every day, aren’t you?” Violet says, hands on her hips, and Anduin beams at her. She doesn’t miss the way Bayard’s lips purse into a line under his hood, and she can’t tell if it’s from disapproval or that he’s trying to hide a smirk. He’s a remarkably hard man to read, but she supposes that’s due to his Kul Tiran heritage, if not his training.

“Now that I’m free, what should we do?” The prince asks, one hand to his brow to keep the sun from his eyes as he surveys the harbor.

“That’s entirely up to you,” Violet replies, looking out over the ocean. “I’m only here to facilitate misbehavior, not to dictate it.”

Anduin wrings his hands, fidgeting with the lion’s head ring she’d given him for his birthday, and lets out a soft sigh as he looks around.

“I’ve spent so much time wishing to be allowed outside the Keep grounds that I’m not sure what to do now that I finally am.”

Frowning at the prince’s words, Violet takes his wrist and leads him down the stairs. His pulse jumps, evident under her fingers, and he stammers.

“We’ll just take a walk,” she says by way of an explanation. “See if anything strikes your fancy.”

Anduin looks over his shoulder at Bayard, who only shrugs.

“As you like, then, Vi.”

The harbor is vibrant and busy, full of sailors and merchants alike. They pass barrels of fish and cages full of still-snapping lobsters, with ships unloading more exotic things like fruits and spices from Kalimdor. Anduin is wide-eyed and seemingly fascinated by everything he sees, and more than once, Violet has to yank him out of the way of a passing crate swung off a ship by crane.

“He really doesn’t get out much, does he?” She finds herself asking Bayard after the third near-collision that makes her swipe an orange from a passing crate and sit Anduin down with it just so she can keep him in one place for a few moments.

“King Varian keeps him close. It’s much easier to see him kept safe inside the Keep.”

Violet looks at the other rogue sidelong, seeing that he never takes his eyes off the prince where he’s perched on a crate, happily eating his snack and completely unaware he’s being discussed over the din of the harbor.

“Why didn’t you stop him from leaving if the King is so picky about it?”

“I’m his bodyguard, not his babysitter. It’s my job to keep him safe, not tell him what he can and can’t do.” Bayard sniffs, scratching at his mustache. “Besides, the sea air is good for the lad.”

There’s something wistful in his voice, and Violet finds herself nodding.

“I grew up in a place like this,” she says, watching the rush of the harbor with a familiar longing in her chest. “I imagine you did, too.”

“More or less.”

He says nothing further, and the two stand in silence. Anduin offers them each a slice of his orange, with Violet accepting and Bayard simply shaking his head to decline.

“Where to now?” Anduin hops off his crate and looks around expectantly. “We still have another few hours before father will notice that I’m gone.”

“Anything you like,” Violet replies, glad to see him so lively. The prince’s brow furrows and he seems deep in thought before his eyes light up.

“Could we take Hala out for a ride?”

Violet raises an eyebrow, hands on her hips.

“To?”

Anduin ducks his head, scuffing the toe of his boot on the dock.

“Oh, I don’t know. Goldshire, maybe?”

Violet and Bayard exchange a glance, and for once, the other rogue actually looks like he’s doing his best not to smile this time.

“What’s in Goldshire?”

“Well, you see…” Anduin trails off, seeing no waver in Violet’s questioning gaze, and sighs. “I saw a poster for the Darkmoon Faire.”

He blinks in surprise when Violet responds with a short laugh, his apprehension turning into a wide grin when she claps him on the shoulder and nods.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Anduin is practically vibrating with excitement as they move back the way they came, weaving through the crowd of sailors and dockworkers. The breeze off the water picks up, and brings with it a scent that stops Violet dead in her tracks. A sense of all-encompassing dread washes over her, and she take in a deep lungful of air, unsure of why this smell is so familiar and causes such a strong, immediate reaction. Her other self is snarling in her head, rattling the bars of her cage in feral terror and every instinct in her body is telling her to _run_.

“Vi?” Anduin calls, a few feet ahead when he notices that she’s stopped and her eyes are vacant save for sheer terror. He’s next to her in two long strides, a hand on her arm. “What’s the matter?”

“Something’s…wrong.” Adrenaline kicks in, flooding her system and readying her to fight when by all accounts, there’s nothing amiss.That smell…she knows it from somewhere, and her stomach turns. It must show in her face, because Anduin takes her other arm and squeezes gently.

“Are you feeling all right?”

Bayard seems to sense her distress, already stepping closer to block both her and the prince from passersby.

“Vi, what’s—”

She shushes Anduin with a hiss, holding up her finger. Heart hammering in her chest, she sniffs at the air again, stifling the shudder that runs down her spine. Whatever this scent is, it means something is very wrong, and that it’s very, _very_ close.

Without another word, Violet surges into the crowd, ignoring the prince’s cries as she seeks out the source of this smell, and as she moves, the sense of dread in her gut only deepens. Every fiber of her being, every instinct - hers or those of her other self - is telling her to go no further, to turn tail and flee for her life. But still, she searches, using her keen nose to guide her. No one else seems to sense anything is amiss, but she realizes there are no gulls calling from anywhere close by, and none flying in the air over the harbor, nor are any of the many stray cats and dogs that hang around the docks present. Something is here…something that frightens away even the animals.

Muscling her way at last to the water’s edge, Violet finds herself standing before a ship. It looks like it only just docked, the gangplank clattering in place just as she sets eyes on it. Nothing appears immediately out of place - it’s just a normal trade vessel by all accounts - but the way the hair on her arms and the back of her neck stands on end, and how her other self is snarling in blind, rabid panic, this has to be the source. The scent is stronger here, but still she can’t place it. It makes her think of musty wood, of the hay loft in the stable when she was younger, of the pantry in the dormitories in Capital City.

A handful of sailors mill about the deck of the ship, securing it in place and drawing up the sails. They, too, look perfectly normal, but she can’t tamp down on the feeling that this ship is carrying something dangerous.

“What’s wrong?” Anduin comes to her side, looking at her and then at the ship. When it’s clear she’s not paying attention, he puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes gently. “Vi?”

“You there,” she calls, once again ignoring the prince. One of the sailors, a crate in his arms, stops where he is and looks at her. “Where’s this ship bound from?”

“Menethil Harbor, miss.”

He sets the crate on the dock, flexing his hands like the weight of the load made his fingers lose feeling.

“What’s your cargo?” There’s steel in her voice, and she approaches him with all the authority she can manage. She looks nothing like an agent of the port authority, but he seems to take her question as such.

“Dry goods, miss. Flour, grain, sugar.” He coughs into his hand, taking a second to catch his breath after.

“No passengers?”

“None, miss. Just the crew, as usual.” He brushes his hands on his pants and gestures to the ship with his thumb. “I can fetch the proper papers from the hold if you like.”

“Do that.”

He nods and moves up the gangplank, coughing again as he passes several other sailors unloading crates.

“Vi, you’re frightening me. What’s gotten into you?” The prince tugs on her arm and makes her face him, and she finds herself looking into the eyes of a young man much older than his years.

“I don’t know,” Violet admits, a small shiver passing through her. “This ship. Something about it…I can’t shake the feeling…”

An inkling rises in the back of her mind, and she pushes past the prince towards the stack of crates on the dock. The smell is stronger here, and she pulls the knife from her boot and uses the flat of the blade to pry up the lid and look in. Dried silverleaf. She hauls it aside effortlessly and goes to the next. Stalks of sugarcane, neatly stacked.

“Oi, miss, I have the papers right here. No need to—”

“Have a look at the man’s papers would you?” She calls over her shoulder, and without missing a beat, Bayard steps forward and begins conversing with the sailor as if he’s indeed an agent of the port authority. Each crate is more of the same, nothing out of place, but she can’t shake the feeling that she’s close, that whatever it is she’s looking for is within reach. A sailor sets down a crate on top of the others behind her and she turns, nearly choking as the overwhelming scent steals over her. She has to breathe through her mouth as she pries up the nails holding the lid shut, and peers into the crate.

The blade drops from her hand.

“What is it?” Anduin asks, approaching her, and she grabs him by the arm and pulls him backwards, lifting him off his feet as she rushes back towards the others.

“Light, what are—”

“Get him out of here,” she says to Bayard, her voice gruff and bordering on the edge of inhuman.

“What? Why?” Anduin pulls himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders, and she fixes him with a glare that tells him not to argue. The young prince is ever as stubborn as his father, however, and returns the glare in kind. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Violet would smile at his defiance if she wasn’t flooded with the urge to haul him over her shoulder and flee.

“Quarantine this dock.”

“What?”

Without an explanation, Violet pulls down the hood of his cloak, exposing him to the small group of passersby that have gathered at the commotion she’s making. The pair of guards that have meandered their way over in anticipation of needing to restore the peace immediately snap into a salute.

“Quarantine this dock,” she repeats, and Anduin takes a moment to gauge her intentions before swallowing hard and nodding.

“By order of the crown, this dock is hereby placed under quarantine until further notice. No one is to leave, and no one is to enter.” His voice is clear and commanding, and for a moment, Violet is incredibly proud of him, but it’s gone all too quickly. The guards nod, immediately establishing a perimeter to keep curious onlookers at bay.

“Miss, really, it’s just a normal cargo run. We picked up our load as usual, and…” The sailor, who had been waving his papers at her, stops as a fit of wracking coughs overcomes him, and Violet pulls Anduin away as the coughs turn into a shower of blood. The man doubles over, vomiting more blood, and collapses to his knees.

“We need to get back to the Keep,” Violet says, and Bayard digs into one of his many hidden pockets to produce a hearthstone. Anduin is frozen in horror before reaching out towards the sailor where he’s convulsing on the dock, blood pouring from his ears and eyes. It’s Bayard who grabs him this time, stepping between the prince and the dying man before taking Violet’s hand so all three are touching the stone. They’re inside the Keep in the next second, in the hallway outside Anduin’s quarters.

“Take him to see a priest. Make sure he wasn’t…” Violet trails off, unable to finish that thought. Bayard nods, taking the prince by the arm and beginning to drag him away.

“Wait, wait,” he says, pulling his bodyguard’s hand off so he can stop to face Violet. “What’s going on, Vi?”

“It’s…” Tears are already spilling down her cheeks, and she can’t make herself speak. Bayard resumes his hold on his charge and pulls him down the hall, and Violet turns and sprints the other way, the thundering of her footsteps and the pounding of her heart nearly drowning out Anduin’s calls after her. She takes the stairs down two and three at a time, finally coming to the door to the King’s meeting room. The two guards outside the door eye her with curiosity but don’t try to stop her. She pushes open the door, nearly out of breath.

“I need to speak to the King.”

Varian looks up from his place at the head of the long table, quite unimpressed, followed by the eyes of every noble in the room.

“We’re in the middle of a meeting, Miss Devereaux,” the king says, but the moment they lock eyes, his demeanor changes. He can smell the fear on her, she’s sure of it, and if not, he can certainly see the urgency in her eyes. He sets down the papers in his hand and looks at the assembled group. “Consider this a short recess. I’ll return presently.”

Rising from his chair, Varian looks to Bolvar and makes a small gesture with his head, and the paladin stands and follows him from the room.

“Find Captain Goddard,” Violet tells one of the guards once she’s out in the hall again. “Tell him it’s urgent.”

The guard dips his chin and moves away, and Varian comes out into the hall with Bolvar at his heels, and he closes the door behind them.

“What’s this about, Violet?”

“Not here,” she replies, moving over to one of the side rooms and beckoning them in with a frantic gesture. Once they’re inside and safely behind another closed door, she turns to face them. “I was down in the harbor, and…”

Fear grips at her throat, and she tries to clear it with a short cough. The memory of the sailor flashes in her mind and she pales, leaning back against the wall.

“Are you unwell?” Bolvar asks, and she feels the prick of the Light against her skin.

“I—”

There’s a commotion outside the door just before it opens, and Anduin barges into the room with Bayard right behind him.

“I’m quite all right, Bay, I don’t need to see a—” The prince sees his father and Bolvar and straightens up, smoothing at his hair. He glances at Violet. “Have you told them?”

“Told us what?” Varian asks, his jaw already set as he looks between his son and Violet.

“Something happened down at the docks, father. I still…I still don’t understand what, or why, but—”

“You were in the harbor?” Varian says, his voice already raised. His glare finds Bayard, and Violet can almost see him shift from man to wolf. “You allowed my son outside of the Keep?”

“With every due respect, your Majesty, I was assigned to your son’s—”

“I don’t give a damn what your reasoning is. My son is not allowed outside this castle, and you have—”

“Father, I insisted that he—”

“Stay out of this, Anduin.” The king bares his teeth at Bayard. “We will discuss this later, with the Spymaster. Get out of my sight.”

Bayard hesitates, fear hidden behind an expertly-trained mask of calm. His eyes flick to the prince, who only shakes his head as his shoulders sag.

“I gave you an order, Fairwind. You are dismissed.”

Anduin gives a short nod behind his father.

“As you wish, your majesty.” Bayard leaves the room with one last look cast towards the prince. Temporarily sated, Varian turns back to his son.

“How dare you disobey me, Anduin. You know I’ve forbidden you to leave the Keep grounds without me.”

“I’m fourteen now, father. I’m old enough to make my own decisions.” Again, Anduin draws himself up, and though he’s not as tall as his father yet, he still looks the part of a crown prince, and a Wrynn. “I was the one who chose to leave the Keep. The others were there to see me safe, father.”

“Others?” Varian’s gaze turns on Violet. “You were a part of this?”

“Vi was only there because I asked her,” Anduin interjects before Violet can speak. “This is my doing, father. I deserve the punishment, not them.”

“You will be punished,” Varian replies, and his son flinches at his tone. “Go back to your quarters. I will deal with you once I know what the _hell_ is going on.”

The king is shouting by now, and Anduin seems to deflate, hanging his head with barely a nod. He looks over at Violet, who’s biting her lower lip nearly raw as she waits for them to finish. Anduin inclines his head in silent question, and she nods once. He returns the gesture and, looking between his father and Bolvar, leaves the room. The door barely clicks shut before it’s open again, and Dacian comes in, eyes going wide in question when he sees the room’s occupants.

“You called for me?” His gaze fixes on Violet. “My guard said it was urgent. What’s going on?”

“That is precisely what I want to know,” Varian says, rounding on Violet. “It had better be damned good.”

Violet tries to find her words, but all that comes out is a dry, pathetic squeak. She swallows hard, taking a deep breath to center herself as Uther taught her, and looks to the king.

“It’s…it’s happening again.”

“What is?” Varian asks, his tone sharp as a blade.

“The…”

“Tell us, little moon.” Dacian says, his professional mask slipping with the worry clear in his eyes. Violet takes another deep breath.

“The plague.”

A few moments of stunned silence pass before Bolvar speaks.

“How?” He asks, his calm mask slipping as well. He was there when it first struck, and she sees that fear in him, and smells the sharp tang of it from them both.

“I smelled it, down at the docks. I…I didn’t know what it was but it…she knew.” Her eyes flick to Dacian, and his face drains of color. He, of all people, knows just how strong her other self’s instincts can be. “There was a ship, a merchant vessel, and I opened the crates and…”

Violet closes her eyes for a moment, fighting away the images in her mind, and opens them to lock gazes with Bolvar.

“It’s just like last time. The…the grain.”

The green mist that escaped the crate would have been intangible to an ordinary person, but she’d seen it immediately. It was exactly what Uther and Katherine had spoken of in hushed whispers when they thought none of their students were awake, and thought they were safe to speak of it in his study. But she had heard them nonetheless, heard of the tainted shipments of grain coming from Andorhal and the plague of undeath that was sweeping across Lordaeron. It was the same grain that had sent Arthas on his quest, and had been enough to damn the entire population of Stratholme in his eyes.

“You’re certain?” Even Varian sounds distressed at her words. She nods.

“It smelled like…” Her eyes go wide in realization. “It smelled like the Undercity.”

Past the scent of decaying flesh, the Undercity held that same musty, not-quite-right smell that had carried to her on the wind. That’s where she’d known it from, she realizes, and why it had made her so uneasy. It had frightened away the animals, as surely as it had set her other self on high alert.

“We have to quarantine, find priests…” Bolvar runs a hand through his hair. “I have to send word to Tirion. We need the Argent Dawn’s aid, now more than ever.”

“I agree,” Varian says, crossing his arms over his chest in thought. “We can’t give Arthas a single soul more for his army.”

What follows is a blur in Violet’s mind. The member of the House of Nobles who commands the imports of grain products has no knowledge of a shipment of anything from Menethil Harbor, let alone grain. The crew is dead by the time the priests arrive, and the harbor guard soon has a small army of freshly-risen ghouls to dispatch. They’re put down quickly, but not before several crates of tainted grain go missing. The very next day, screams echo through the city as citizens die horrible, violent deaths and rise again to assault their families and friends. Panic spreads quickly through Stormwind. Many of those living there are refugees of the Third War, having already seen their loved ones die to the plague and come back once before.

The Argent Dawn arrives quickly to administer aid, but there is only so much they can do for those already afflicted. Not even the Light can save many of the victims, and only burning their corpses can guarantee they will not return. No funerals, no last goodbyes. Word comes in that every major city in the world, whether Horde or Alliance, received similar shipments of tainted grain and are dealing with the very same horror as the human capital. Hundreds die in Stormwind alone, and the threat of the Lich King is once again fresh and raw in the hearts of the living.

The infestation dies out slowly, and Violet does what she can to help, but she cannot cleanse and heal as she used to, instead left feeling as helpless as she had when the plague had first come to bear those years ago. She hears the cries of those who have their loved ones stolen, and she feels her hopelessness morph into grief as deep as she had felt when her mother had died, and then Uther. So many lives lost, and for what?

The rage takes hold then, smothering out anything and everything else. Highlord Fordragon is amassing an army to sail northward, to take the fight to Lich King and end his attacks against the living world, and Violet vows to go with him. Dacian protests, first in anger and then in pleading fear, but he knows that there is no shaking her resolve once she’s set her heart on something. He kisses her as if for the last time after she signs her name to the Army of the Grand Alliance when they call for volunteers for what’s being called the war to end all wars. They’ll be wed in only a week’s time, and two more past that, she’ll be on a ship bound for the Borean Tundra.

This is the catalyst, the start of something far beyond anything Azeroth has seen before, not even when the Third War began. Arthas is awake, and he stands to once again take everything she holds dear. He stole her mother, her beloved teacher, her home. She will not allow him to take any more, from anyone.

This is her war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over, thank the Light!
> 
> I slacked so hard on this one, but a big thank you to everyone who kudos'd and commented because, believe it or not, that does motivate me! I'm so grateful to everyone who's continued to read this and comment and send love. You guys make my tiny little author heart all warm and fuzzy.
> 
> The next one is way more planned out, and so much happens, oh my Light. I can't wait to tell that story! I promise I'll try harder to update more often.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think (this one was kinda bleh, I know). Please don't hesitate to leave feedback!
> 
> Much love,  
> Jess <3
> 
> (Next chapter is up! https://archiveofourown.org/works/17500496)


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